


Warrior Shepherds

by RisingPhoenix761



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Misuse of Firearms, Sexual Tension, Threesome but no twincest, Vomiting, public intoxication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingPhoenix761/pseuds/RisingPhoenix761
Summary: They were called to destroy evil, but crossing paths with a wayward soul meant compromise. And in compromising, the MacManus brothers get more than they bargained for.





	1. Emergency Room

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! The serious story! I'm going to start this off with a trigger warning for the opening chapter... I'll update the tags as I post new content, and I'll always let you know when something unsavory is coming up, as I don't want anyone to read something they might not be okay with. Other than that, this has been one of my favorite projects to date, and I hope you enjoy it as well.
> 
> And away we go!

There are a few passing similarities between a bar and an emergency room: the smell of alcohol hanging in the air, the general confession of pain and woe, and a number of people in sore need of a drink. Given the right bar at the right time of night, it is also possible to find the same number of injuries.

Connor and Murphy MacManus sat in the waiting area, by all rights lucky to be alive after their tangle with Checkov and his comrade. Connor glanced over at his brother, sitting quietly and staring down at his boots, and he didn't have to ask to know how shaken he was. They had been in plenty of fights, but they had never come as close to death as they had that morning—or worse, losing each other. He examined the bandages on his wrists where the Russian's handcuffs had cut him in his desperation to get to his brother in time, and he couldn't help laughing softly.

"Somethin funny?" Murphy asked.

Connor shook his head, still chuckling. "Wait'll I tell Ma I had ta jump five stories with a fuckin bog to save ye," he told his twin.

"Well, look who's got jokes," Murphy replied. "Wait'll I tell her you started it when ye set some poor bastard's ass on fire. Might not've needed savin then, right?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then added, "What the fuck were ye thinkin, ta do somethin like that? Had ye lost yer fuckin mind?"

"Musta," Connor replied, still looking at the bandages. His wrists hurt like hell now that the adrenaline of the moment had worn off, but he hadn't felt a thing when the metal bit deep. "They were gonna kill you, Murph. For fuck's sake, I had ta do somethin."

"Aye," Murphy replied. "Ye always have ta be the fuckin hero. I wouldna lived with myself if ye got yerself killed tryin ta save my ass. Ye didn't think about that, did ye?"

"Fuck no," Connor shot back. "An' you wouldn't have either. Ye woulda done the same for me."

Murphy fell silent. He was right, of course. If it had been Connor in danger, Murphy would have torn down the gates of Hell to save him. That's how it was with them, how it always would be. They would die for each other in a heartbeat. They didn't need to take on Russian mobsters to prove it.

Connor gave him a nudge with his elbow. "Hey," he said, "we made it, right? All in one piece."

Murphy heaved a sigh, feeling some of the tension slide off his shoulders, and nodded.

"An' I'll bet I looked pretty fuckin stupid, jumpin off the roof with a toilet."

"Like somethin outta yer stupid movies," Murphy told him, beginning to giggle. "A real big time hero."

They shared a laugh, shoving playfully at each other, then leaned back in their chairs and gazed around at the ER. A little boy sat nearby looking around the room with apparent nerves and curiosity, momentarily ignoring his wounds. Three nuns who arrived shortly after the brothers continued to mumble prayers and talk in whispers. Sitting farthest away was a scantily-clad young woman, her arms folded tightly across her shivering frame and her face so badly beaten one eye was swollen shut. She wiped blood from a cut on her cheek and locked eyes with the brothers for a moment before looking away.

Murphy turned to Connor and said, "So, what're ye thinkin? Should we go ta the cops?"

Connor shrugged. "It was them or us, wasn't it? Just walk in an' explain without a fuss, we haven't done anythin wrong." He slid a foot under his chair, pushing the bag underneath it further out of sight. Something inside shifted and spilled out; he bent down and scooped up a fallen watch and several wads of cash and put them in the bag, straightening up with a muted curse and finding the little boy watching him. He put a finger to his lips and winked; the boy smiled.

"I called Doc," Connor went on. "He's on his way down."

"An' after he gets here?"

"Still workin on that."

The door at the end of the hallway opened and a man strode into the waiting room. Among the wounded, he stuck out like a parrot in a flock of sparrows with his flashy clothes and excessive jewelry. He scanned the faces in the room, settled on the beaten woman and went to her, talking in a low, harsh voice.

Murphy groaned and massaged his temples. "Christ, my fuckin head..."

" _Your_ head?" Connor shot back. "Been pistol whipped lately? Might have a concussion after—"

Raised voices drowned him out as the man and the beaten woman began to argue, the words amplified in the quiet room.

"—not putting up with your shit, now let's go!"

"Fuck you, I just got the shit knocked out of me, and—"

"And you'll get worse if you don't move your fucking ass!"

The little boy glanced warily at the pair and the nuns had fallen silent, their faces alert. The man grabbed the woman by the arm and tried to yank her from her chair, but she resisted. "You're in enough trouble, bitch, and if you don't start walking—"

"Man, just relax, would ye?" Connor cut in, edging forward in his chair. Beside him, Murphy imitated his movement. "The lady's had it hard enough, ye don't gotta be—"

"Stay out of it, asshole," the man snapped.

"Ye're makin people nervous," Murphy chimed in. "We got women and kids in here, so why not calm yerself down?"

"Why not mind your own fucking business?" He turned back to the woman and tightened his grip on her arm. "Last damn chance, either get up or I'll haul your ass out of here."

"I haven't seen a doctor yet," she protested.

"I don't give a shit!"

"She's made it pretty clear she's not leavin," Connor interjected, an edge creeping into his voice. He and Murphy leaned even closer to the pair, ready to spring into action. "I'd be respectin her wishes if I were you."

"I don't have time for this," the man sneered. He seized the woman by the hair and dragged her to her feet; she tripped in her high heels and fell with a cry of pain.

The brothers leaped to their feet and started towards her, but Connor barely made it two steps before his legs folded beneath him. Murphy hesitated a moment before turning and helping him back into his chair. Across the room, the man kicked the woman in the ribs as she continued to struggle; the nuns gave exclamations of shock and the woman curled in on herself, gasping for breath and clutching at the man's wrist as he dragged her by the hair to the door.

Connor was beside himself with rage, still trying to rise from his chair but restrained by Murphy. "What the fuck's wrong with ye, Murph?" he demanded, trying to stand. "Stop em, do somethin!"

"Calm down," Murphy urged, pushing him back. "Just take it easy, ye can't do nothin when ye can't even walk."

"So ye're just gonna sit an' watch?"

"Listen—" Connor struggled and Murphy pushed him back again, one hand in the middle of his chest. "Listen ta what the fuck I'm tellin you," he insisted. "Ye can't be the hero this time. Ye'll get yer ass kicked, an' he'll take it out on her later. Ye gotta let it go, man."

Connor stared after the man, shooting daggers at his retreating figure. "He's bad news, Murph," he insisted. "Bad news."

"I know," Murphy replied, "but he'll have his day." He turned to the man and yelled, "He'll have his fuckin day!"

The man didn't even look back. The woman gazed after the brothers, no longer fighting her captor, and Connor and Murphy watched her until the man hauled her through the doorway and disappeared.


	2. Hit and Miss

"All right, fine, hang onto your little prayer, but we still need our own thing, like a slogan or something."

"Why's that?"

"Why the fuck not? We're like the three musketeers in here, man!"

"Ye know, maybe he's right..."

"Are ye fuckin serious?"

"Aye, but I think 'all for one and one for all' is taken."

Connor and Murphy laughed between themselves at the joke while Rocco looked from one to the other with an irritable expression. "Just trying to get into the spirit of the whole thing," he grumbled.

"No worries, Wyatt Earp, ye got plenty enough spirit," Murphy informed him, clapping him on the shoulder and ruffling his hair.

They stood in the back hallway of the Sin Bin, loud music reverberating through the walls. Once Rocco had finished off the two men in the booths next to Vincenzo, the brothers went from one corpse to the next, laying out the bodies, folding the hands and placing pennies over the eyes. Connor draped a robe from the dressing room over the unconscious dancer before they left, casting a sly look at Rocco who avoided his gaze, looking awkward.

The brothers holstered their weapons and hid their masks in their coat pockets. Rocco paced back and forth, gun still in hand and adrenaline coursing through his system. "Fuck this," he said, "there's got to be more fuckin assholes around here, there always is in places like this!"

"Ye speakin from experience there, Roc?" Murphy japed.

"I'm serious!" Rocco burst out. "Let's fuckin kill the bastards!"

"We've stayed long enough," Connor said, nodding towards the room where they had left the dancer. "She's gonna be comin 'round any minute now, an' we can't be here when she does."

Murphy nodded his agreement and Rocco stowed the gun, looking disappointed.

They set off up the hallway, Rocco leading the way to the back exit. Rowdy voices punctuated the music from the club's main room, but Rocco steered them towards the back of the building.

"Ye know the way around here, Roc, I'll give ye that," Connor commented.

"I was errand boy for a regular customer," Rocco groused, "that's how I got familiar with the layout."

"Yeah, _that's_ how," Murphy needled, and Rocco shot him a sideways look.

They approached the door onto the back alley, and when they were still ten feet away it swung open. They froze in their tracks, Connor and Murphy covertly reaching for their weapons, and a woman stumbled into the hallway.

At first glance she looked homeless, with unkempt brown hair, dirty clothes, and an old backpack slung over one shoulder. After a second look she appeared to be a prostitute, wearing a black openwork mesh top and a mini skirt under a dark green coat and with one heel snapped off her stilletto boots. Under a third examination she was clearly drunk as drunk can be. She wove and staggered as she walked, further impeded by her broken shoes, her bloodshot eyes focused on nothing, and she wore the smell of booze the way another woman would wear perfume.

She closed the door and took several more precarious steps down the hallway, caught sight of the three men ahead of her, and paused. Her brow furrowed and she swayed where she stood, her gaze sliding from one face to the next. "Who the hell are you?" she asked.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco exchanged glances before Connor replied, "On our way out. Who're you?"

"I'm looking for someone." She examined their faces again, asking, "You seen him anywhere?"

"Seen who?"

"That fucking bastard who—" She stumbled and pitched sideways into the wall, the backpack sliding off her shoulder and landing on the floor. Something inside smashed; she cursed and unzipped the bag to look. "Aw shit..." she groaned.

Connor and Murphy took the lead, edging past her on the way to the door. She looked up and lunged towards them, latching onto Murphy's arm. "You can't go," she said. "Tell me where he is, I know he's around here somewhere."

"I'd forget about it, sweetheart," Murphy replied, trying to brush her off, but her grip was deceptively strong. "Why not call it a night and head home?"

She shook her head, the motion making her entire body wobble. "Can't do that, I've got to find him tonight."

"Whatever ye have with him'll keep til tomorrow," Connor told her, steering her away from Murphy.

"No, it won't," she argued, her voice rising. "I've got to find him so I can kill him." She drew a switchblade from the backpack and snapped it open.

The brothers drew back, instantly alert. Behind them, Rocco burst out, "Holy shit!"

She shifted her attention to him, a gleam of recognition springing to her eyes. "Is that Rocco?" she asked.

"Aw shit, she knows me," he groaned, moving to pull his mask down over his face too late then stopping himself; if she had already recognized him, it was a wasted effort. "We're fucked now!"

"Who is she?" Murphy demanded, his eyes riveted on the blade in her hand.

"She's one of the fucking dancers," Rocco told him.

"An' she can put a name ta yer face?" Connor asked. "Jesus, Roc, how often are ye in here?"

The woman ignored the exchange, focusing again on the brothers. "I know you," she said, as if trying to convince herself. "I _know_ you..."

Rocco began to pace again, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "So how often do _you_ guys fuckin come here if she fuckin knows _you?"_ he challenged. "We might as well just start handing out business cards!"

"Roc, shut it!"

It seemed to take more and more effort for the woman to stay on her feet as the alcohol caught up to her. The knife fell from her hand and she repeated one more time, "I know you." She took a few staggering steps towards them, wobbling on her shaky knees and broken heels, then tripped over her own backpack and fell face first into the wall, knocking herself out cold and leaving a smudge of blood from one of the cuts on her face.

Connor and Murphy rushed to catch her before she hit the floor and her head lolled back on her shoulders, her hair falling away from her face. "Murph," Connor said, "it's her, the one from the hospital!"

Murphy studied her face, then his eyes widened. "Fuckin hell," he swore, "ye're right!"

She looked even worse than she had days before. The old bruises were fading but there were fresh ones on her face and whatever skin could be seen through the mesh top bore similar marks. Scrapes marred her bare legs and a large scab covered a gash on her thigh. The untreated injuries were smudged with dirt and grime, and by the way the gash had swollen, it looked infected.

"What do ye think we should do with her?" Connor queried.

Murphy shrugged, then glanced at Rocco. "Way ta uphold the family honor," he said, gesturing down the hallway. "That's her pimp ye got back there."

Rocco spread his arms as if to say What now? "So," he replied, "what are we doing with her? I don't know how you feel about leaving witnesses, but I—"

Panicked screams echoed from the far end of the club; the dancer in the booth had woken up.

Connor and Murphy traded looks, then Connor hoisted the woman's limp body over his shoulder. "At least we can take her ta the ER."

Murphy shrugged. "Still bein' the hero..."

"We're _taking her with us?"_ Rocco burst out. "Are you fuckin crazy?"

"Look at it like this, Roc," Murphy told him, picking up the fallen knife and the backpack; whatever had smashed inside the bag had soaked through and smelled strongly of whiskey. "We're not leavin witnesses."

"No, just taking one to get patched up and go to the cops!" But the brothers had already turned towards the exit; "Jesus Christ," Rocco muttered, then he hurried to open the door so Connor could pass.

"How noble of ye, Roc," Connor remarked, carrying the woman outside. "Helpin ta rescue a damsel in distress like a real prince charming."

"Can we just get to the fuckin car?" he urged.

They exited the alley behind the club and made for Vincenzo's Lincoln parked across the street. Rocco climbed into the backseat, then Connor set the woman in the seat beside him. "Maybe we should, I don't know, cuff her or blindfold her or something," he suggested.

"What for?" Connor asked, walking around the car and getting into the driver's seat. He had taken the keys from Vincenzo's body before they left; he took them from his pocket now and started the car. "We're not takin her hostage."

"I would feel a lot better about riding with her," Rocco replied.

"She's out cold and wasted," Murphy pointed out, setting the backpack in the floorboard at the woman's feet and sliding into the car. "If it comes to a fight, I think ye can take her."

Rocco rolled his eyes but fell silent.

* * *

Consciousness was slow in returning; it always was when she was this drunk. Bits and pieces drifted in through her stupor, like the hypnotic lull of a car engine, the sickening lurch in her stomach when it hit a pothole, and the occasional murmur of unfamiliar voices. The whiskey was wearing off and she was no longer numb to the pain of her injuries, and she winced as she shifted in her seat. _I've got Percs in my bag_ , she reminded herself, and she opened her eyes.

The backpack was at her feet, but she paused before reaching for it. Something seemed off...she tried to focus, willing her surroundings to make sense. She was in the back of a car, headed God only knew where, with one, two, three strange men.

Panic surged through her body like electricity, eclipsing the pain. "What the fuck is this?" she shouted. "Where are you taking me?"

All three men gave starts of surprise at her outburst. The one sitting next to her had a gun sticking out of his belt; she snatched it and pointed it in his face. "Pull the fuck over," she said, "or I swear to God I'll shoot him right now!"

The three of them started yelling at the same time, the one in the back cursing over and over with eyes trained on the gun, the two in the front trying to talk her down. She cocked the gun and repeated, "Pull over now, or I'm going to shoot him!"

"Put the gun down," the driver urged in a foreign accent, gaze darting between her and the road ahead. "No one's tryin ta hurt ye, just relax—"

"Don't fucking tell me to relax! Why am I in this car?"

"Ease up a bit, now," the man in the passenger seat reasoned. "Just drop the gun, ye don't wanna be doin' anythin stupid—"

"The fuck I don't!"

"Quit fuckin antagonizing the bitch!" the man next to her shouted. "She's about to fucking kill me!"

"Shut the fu—"

The man in the passenger seat made a grab for the gun, wrenching it away from his friend. She tightened her grip and squeezed the trigger; the bullet shot out the driver's side window, the report deafening in the car's interior. There was more yelling and shouting as the man driving slammed on the brakes and swerved towards the curb, the car mounting the sidewalk as it squealed to a stop.

The two in the front got out of the car, the passenger wrestling the gun out of her hand before opening her door. "C'mon," he said. "Outta the car."

She got out, unsteady on her broken heels and ears ringing from the gunshot. She tripped as she climbed out and sprawled onto the pavement, cursing at the impact. He held out a hand to help her to her feet, and her head spun as she stood. Her stomach lurched again and she bowed over to be sick. The man kept a steadying hand on her shoulder as she threw up, careful to stand out of the line of fire, and he asked as she straightened up, "Feelin better?"

"No," she croaked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She took several deep breaths and looked around at the three men. They stood under a street light, so she was able to see their faces.

She recognized the one she'd had the gun on easily. He came into the club often enough, and it wasn't hard to place the long hair and scruffy beard. The other two were a different story, of similar height and build, one with light hair and the other dark. They both watched her as closely as if she was a wild animal that could either bolt away or attack at any moment. She was sure she didn't know them, but equally sure she had seen them before.

"Have ye lost yer mind?" the light-haired one demanded. There again was that lilting accent, putting her in mind of leprechauns and Lucky Charms, a thought so stupid she could have laughed if she wasn't so pissed off. "Ye could've killed someone doin' a thing like that!"

"Good, that's what I was aiming to do," she shot back.

"Homicidal, then, ain't she?" the dark one asked in the same accent. The question was posed as a joke, but his tone was steady and serious.

"I knew bringing her was a bad idea," the bearded one put in.

"Bringing me?" she repeated. "I didn't ask to come along, did I?"

"Can we just calm ourselves an' talk reasonable here?" the light-haired one asked. He addressed her directly. "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but let's start over. I'm Connor, this is my brother Murphy, an' that's our friend—"

"Rocco," she finished for him, dismissing the man with a gesture. "Screw that. Why am I here and what were you doing with me?"

"Bein' good Samaritans," the one called Murphy told her.

"Ye were blacked out an' worse for wear," Connor added. "We were takin ye to a hospital."

"So you were just driving around and saw some random bitch, drunk off her ass with a few bruises, and decided to lend a hand out of the goodness of your hearts?"

They shrugged. "Close enough ta get on with," Connor replied.

She snorted, swaying where she stood, and turned to Rocco. "And what the hell are you doing here?" she asked. "I'd have thought you would be out on some job for that boss you're always going on about."

The brothers laughed. "How 'bout it, Roc?" Murphy asked. "Are ye sure ye only went to that place on business? Looks like she's got yer number, there."

Rocco gave him the finger.

She leaned against the car as another wave of nausea stole over her. Something trickled down her leg; the cut on her thigh was bleeding again.

"Look, let us get ye to a doctor or take ye home, or somethin," Connor wheedled. "I don't feel right leavin a woman on the side of the road."

Murphy nodded, but she shook her head. "Home is a bad idea."

"Then a doctor? We're not meanin ye any harm, so ye can rest easy."

"Is that so?" Her head was pounding; she would have one hell of a hangover to look forward to. She looked back at Connor and Murphy again, finally recognizing them. "Wait a second," she said, "I know you two."

"Aw shit, this again," Rocco muttered.

"You were in the ER that day," she went on, ignoring him. "You tried to stand up for me when that asshole Benny took me out of there."

They nodded again, and she laughed. "And you still think you have to rescue me!"

"I wouldn't call it rescue," Connor replied. "Just tryin ta help. To the hospital, then?"

"You know what, I think I've got it under control." She turned to walk away from the car and staggered wildly between her broken boots and injured leg.

"Ye sure about that?" Murphy asked skeptically.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she replied. She kept at it with a tenacious effort, but after covering only a few yards she was forced to stop. She gave a growl of irritation and said, "Fine, but give me that gun back as a show of your good intentions."

"Good intentions?" Connor repeated. "An' what about yers? We only got five windows left, an' it's fuckin cold out."

"You'll have bigger shit to worry about if you try anything," she promised. "If you want to help me out so bad, then give me some peace of mind while you're at it, you know what I'm saying?"

The brothers shrugged. "Fine, then," Murphy said, moving to hand back the gun.

"Whoa whoa, wait one fuckin minute here," Rocco burst in. "I'm not going nowhere with a psycho fucking bitch with a loaded gun."

"Ye wanna walk?" Murphy asked.

"C'mon, Roc, the gun's only as good as the bullets in it," Connor told him.

"What the fuck do you think I'm saying?"

"Can the bullshit, Rocco," the woman snapped. "I won't shoot you unless you piss me off."

Murphy smirked. "Sounds pretty reasonable ta me."

Rocco threw up his hands and walked around the car. "Fine. Fuck it. And don't blame me if she fuckin kills us all."

"Fine, then, we'll just have ta compromise," Murphy replied. He ejected the magazine from the gun and checked the chamber for any rounds before handing the woman the empty gun. "Ye can still knock some of his teeth out if ye get pissed off," he suggested. "I'm fairly sure that won't kill him."

"Jesus, my _leg_ is fucking killing me," she groaned as she limped back to the car.

"How'd that happen?" he asked.

"It's a long story." Murphy held the door to let her into the backseat, but she reeled back again and moved away to vomit one more time.

"Take it easy on the road, Connor," Murphy instructed as she spat out the last of the bile. "Might need ta pull over later."

"And I'd hate to puke in the car," she agreed.

He smiled and she got into the back. She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes, the pain in her head and leg building. "Has anyone seen a bottle of whiskey anywhere?"

"Sorry ta disappoint," Murphy replied. "Ye had one, but it broke when ye dropped the backpack."

She groaned. "You're right. Never mind."

"Hey, do us a favor," Connor said, starting the car. "Tell us yer name."

"You want the real one, or should I use an alias?"

"The real one."

"Renata. Sorry I almost shot you."

He smiled at her. "Thanks for missin me."

She returned the smile, if a bit faintly, and they drove away.


	3. A Fox Hunt

Once again, Paul Smecker arrived fashionably late. A smattering of Boston's finest were already swarming the club by the time he got there, clearing out stragglers, running crime scene tape, and sending curious onlookers packing. Most of them already knew him by sight and simply waved him on.

It was a typical sleazy strip joint on the inside, smut trying to disguise itself with the trappings of taste. Hence the fancy carpets in the foyer in dire need of cleaning, the ambient lighting in the hallways, the plush upholstery in the VIP rooms that needed an even more severe cleaning than the carpets, and the erotic murals throughout the club depicting the seven deadly sins, of which lust seemed to be the most popular. Smecker walked past it all without a second glance, heading for the back of the club.

The corridor in the rear of the building was barred to the public, doors leading off to dressing rooms and janitorial closets, and a staircase at the far end of the corridor led to the office on the second floor, open to staff only. It was here that he found Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly waiting for him. He approached them with a condescending smile. "Glad to see Boston PD doesn't take days off, as the bad guys don't seem to, either." He glanced past them to the forensics team down the hallway, combing over the crime scene. "What do we have now?"

"It's a fuckin mess in there," Greenly announced. "Dancer flipped out, started screaming about dead guys and more guys with guns, someone called and we had cars down here in five minutes."

"What's the body count?"

"Three."

"And you're sure about that this time?"

"Just three," Dolly assured him. "All with pennies over the eyes, just like the hotel."

"Interesting." Smecker glanced down the corridor to the door at the opposite end. "Is that the only exit from back here?"

"It is," Duffy answered; he seemed to have left the novelty ties at home this time. "The only other exits are through the main club, and no one reports seeing anyone suspicious hanging around or passing through. They got in, got out, no witnesses."

"What about the dancer who found the bodies?"

"Already got her statement," Dolly replied. "She's still here if you want to talk to her."

"In a minute." Smecker inspected the hallway near the door, passing over the amber-colored stain on the carpet and pausing at a blood smear on the wall. It was only a brushing and long since dried...there was no telling how old it was, but he preferred to be thorough. "Get forensics over here and get a sample of this," he told the detectives. "Run it through the system and see if we get any hits. And find out what the hell this is on the rug. If there's a lead to be found around here, I want it hounded to its den." He looked up and down the hallway, looking past his colleagues for something likely. "Think of it as a fox hunt, gentlemen. Now let's see if we can pick up a scent. Are there any surveillance cameras back here?"

"Not a single one," Duffy replied. "No security equipment at all in the whole place apart from the bouncers."

"Not surprising. There's usually too much going on under the table in these places. And you can't have a man watching the monitors whacking off to the dancers when he's supposed to be keeping an eye on the customers, can you?"

His airy tone conveyed his contempt at the whole idea and the detectives began to smile before they could stop themselves, going serious again when Smecker turned back to them. "Where does that exit lead?"

"Back alley that leads out onto the street," Greenly answered. "We looked it over when we got here, but didn't see anything."

Smecker disregarded the last bit of information and went out to the alley. The light was barely adequate, and the flashing blue from the squad cars on the street didn't help much. He borrowed a flashlight from one of the uniforms and clicked it on, searching the alley. He passed the beam over the fire escape and the dumpster, then focused on the ground. A manhole cover shifted beneath his feet as he prowled back and forth, sweeping the light over the pavement. They had to have left some trace...

The detectives stood back as he combed over the alley, then turned off the flashlight with a sigh. Nothing.

"Find anything?" Greenly asked.

"The same thing you did, shocking as that is," he replied. "I want this alley closed off. No one comes through here until I go over it in daylight, understood?" God knew the last thing he needed was some frigging bum or junkie meandering through and tampering with the scene. He made for the door and they stood aside to let him in; one of the forensics team was getting a sample of the blood on the wall. "Be sure and dust for prints," he added. "You don't need me to tell you how to do your job, but pay close attention to this door."

"Is it still a hunt?" Dolly asked as they headed down the hallway towards the crime scene.

"It's always a hunt," Smecker told him. "The hunt never stops." Hit men, crooks, mobsters...the world was full of evil men. And for men like Paul Smecker, the hunt for those assholes was a lifelong commitment.


	4. Emergency Room Revisited

The emergency room was almost as empty as it had been the morning after St. Patty's. Renata sat filling out the paperwork, glancing up at her companions from time to time. "You know, you don't have to stick around," she informed them. "I can handle it from here, thanks."

Murphy shrugged and Connor spoke. "In case ye can't, we'll wait."

"Suit yourselves." She finished with the form, stuck the pen in the jaw of the clipboard, and braced herself to stand. Murphy took the clipboard from her and rose to take it to the receptionist. "Thanks," she said.

"Don't mention it," he replied, reading the name on the form, "Ingrid Bergman."

She smirked and settled back into her chair with a sigh, then a slight frown crossed her face. "Hold up," she said, "you guys were in the club, weren't you? I was coming in the back door and you were there."

Rocco gave Connor a sharp look, but Connor remained passive. "Are ye always lookin for someone ta kill when ye been drinkin?" he replied.

She raised her brow quizzically. "Did I say that?" she asked

"Sure, an' Roc about pissed himself when ye pulled the knife."

"No, that was when she pulled my own fuckin gun on me," Rocco corrected.

Renata shrugged. "You shouldn't have kidnapped me, then, should you?"

"Kidnap, now that's a strong word..." Connor said.

"And I would have had no problem shooting any of you," she went on. "I was well within my rights, anyone would have called it self-defense."

"Aye," Murphy agreed, returning to his seat and joining the conversation. "Maybe we shoulda cuffed and blinfolded her, Roc, like ye suggested."

Renata's eyes widened and she looked at Rocco in disbelief. "I should have shot your ass after all!"

He shook his head. "I didn't feel like taking chances," he said, "and I take no responsibility for what happened."

"Yeah, I'll bet you don't."

"How do ye know our man Roc?" Connor queried. "He sure knew you fast enough."

"He says he's in that place on the job and expects us ta believe him," Murphy added.

"What, this guy?" Renata demanded, pointing at him. "Hell, this motherfucker's always in there talking up the girls like he's a big time mob boss! He knows everyone on the Friday night shift by name!"

Connor and Murphy shared grins of triumph and Rocco chose diffidence as his defense. "I'm a man that appreciates a nice rack the way another man might appreciate a nice painting-"

"Depends on how many other men start feelin up the art gallery," Connor interrupted wryly.

"And if I choose to spend my time admiring a variety of nice paintings," he went on, "that's my deal, isn't it?"

"Sure, Roc. Whatever ye say."

"Now, about you two," Renata said, turning to the brothers, "I know I'm plastered, but I don't think you're from around here."

"Nah," Connor confirmed. "Not by a longshot."

"I'm going to guess you're Irish."

"Sure."

"No kidding! My dad was Irish! Well, maybe _he_ wasn't, he was from Missouri, but it's still in the genes. Did the whole family come over here, or just you two?"

"Just us," Murphy replied. "The rest a the clan's back home."

She bobbed her head in acknowledgment; in her state of inebriation, the room seemed to swim with the movement. "Well, just so you know, that accent is sexy as fuck," she said.

Connor smiled. "So we've heard."

A uniformed nurse appeared at the far end of the hallway. "Ingrid Bergman," she called.

"There's my cue," Renata remarked, stretching cat-like in her chair and grimacing at the pain. She slowly got to her feet and picked up her backpack, shaking her head at the damp stain before hobbling toward the nurse in her uneven boots.

Rocco turned to the brothers once she was gone. "So what do you think?" he asked. "You think she'll go to the cops?"

"Nah," Connor replied. "She doesn't know anythin, hardly even remembers what she does know."

"What if it hits the news, like Copley Plaza?" Murphy asked. "She might start thinkin again about what she remembers."

"An' she still won't know anythin," Connor repeated. "Nothin ta worry about."

Murphy nodded, satisfied, and after a moment Rocco shrugged.

The minutes dragged by, the sounds of the hospital filtering into the otherwise silent room. A few more ill and injured came in, including a man in a drugged stupor wearing handcuffs, bleeding from a broken nose and escorted by two police officers.

Rocco glanced at the trio and said, "Do you think the cops are down there yet?"

The brothers nodded.

"Do you think they'll connect it to the hotel or the deli?"

"The hotel for sure," Connor said, "but maybe not the deli."

"But wait'll it gets back ta Pappa Joe," Murphy told him. "Ye'll have him scared shitless, Roc, renegade assassin that ye are."

Rocco smiled. "Should have moved me up the ladder years ago, fuckin asshole." He looked around the ER again and asked, "What are we still doing here? We got nothing to worry about, so let's get the fuck out of here."

Connor shrugged. "I dunno...ye think we should tell her that her man's done for?" he asked Murphy.

"She won't miss him, sure as hell," Murphy said.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Rocco demanded, leaning in close and lowering his voice. "You don't even know that _was_ her man!"

"She was goin' in there ta get someone," Connor told him. "Who else do ye think it coulda been?"

"You still don't gotta say anything! Tell her that and she goes from knowing nothing to knowing a whole fuckin lot!"

"She's not gonna rat us out, Roc. Ye didn't see this guy, we did her a favor-"

"Great! Keep telling yourself that, and when she finds out we killed him-"

"Say what? You killed someone?"

The three of them snapped to attention. Renata had returned, gazing from one to the next and glaring suspiciously through eyes still foggy with liquor. "Did I hear that right?" she asked.

"Nice one, Roc," Murphy said.

"You're the ones that wanted to tell her," Rocco shot back.

"Is this something I even want to know?" she demanded.

They remained in a standoff, the men sitting and Renata standing, each staring at the other and sizing each other up. It was finally Connor who spoke first. "Look, this isn't the place for this shit, so why don't we all go outside an' have a chat?"

"Why would I want to?" she asked. Her gray eyes were as cold and unyielding as stone as she started at Connor and he stared right back. "After what I just walked in on-"

"It's pretty fuckin stupid ta walk inta the middle of a conversation an' start makin assumptions, not ta mention rude. Didn't yer ma teach ye any manners?"

"There's irony," she said. " _I_ woke up in _your_ car, remember?"

Murphy leaned closer to his brother and asked in Latin, " _You're thinking we should tell her?"_

_"Might have to, or she_ will _go to the cops_ ," Connor whispered back. _"She's holding something back too, whatever she says."_

 "Hey," Renata cut in sharply, "I could go over there right now and tell them something is up with you three," she gestured with her thumb to the two officers.

"That's called hearsay, sweetheart," Murphy told her, reverting back to English. "Good luck with that."

"I might take my chances."

"I knew it," Rocco burst out. "I fuckin  _knew_   this was a bad idea."

"Shut it, Roc," Connor cut him off. He looked back at Renata. "Then how 'bout these chances," he said. "A woman that's had too much ta drink goes 'round accusin people a things she doesn't even know really happened, no proof or information she can give anyone, knowin nothin but a few names..." He drifted off, letting his point sink in.

Renata continued to stare but her mind was working, analyzing Connor's statement and weighing every potential outcome. He had a point; it was their word against hers, and she didn't exactly look like a reliable witness. If only she wasn't so damn drunk-a cop was more likely to arrest _her_ for public intoxication before he even gave the three men a thought.

"Is it makin any sense?" Connor prompted.

She ignored the question. "Why would I go anywhere to talk? You already kidnapped me once."

"An' drove ye ta get checked out," he replied. "Doesn't sound like we had designs on ye, does it?"

"This could all be another misunderstanding," Murphy added, joining his brother's cause. "Why not clear the air a bit?"

"Yeah, we might find no one has anything on anyone," Rocco offered, "so no one needs to say anything to anyone and we can all just keep our mouths shut."

Murphy elbowed him.

Renata gave them a final look of appraisal, then nodded. "All right."

They stood outside the hospital several minutes later, shivering in the harsh night air. Renata rummaged in her backpack and brought out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes; every last one was soaked through with spilled whiskey. She threw them into the nearest trash can with a huff of irritation, and Connor offered one of his own before taking one for himself. She watched him as he lit up and took a drag, then she followed suit. "Thanks."

He exhaled with a sigh. "Let's just cut past the bullshit, right? We need ta know we can trust you."

That made her laugh. " _You_ need to trust _me?_ "

"Damn right we do," Murphy told her, lighting his own cigarette. "So how's a show of honesty sound?"

"Ye went ta that club lookin for someone," Connor said. "Ye had a knife, ye meant ta use it, an' we all know it."

She was drunk enough to answer truthfully. "Yeah, I did," she replied. "Are you going to turn me in?"

"We've got as much on you as ye got on us."

"Which is to say, neither of us has jack shit."

"Exactly."

She nodded and flicked ash off the end of her cigarette. "So how about some honesty from you guys?" she asked. "Sound fair?"

Connor glanced at Murphy and Rocco. "Do ye think we can trust her?"

Murphy looked her up and down and nodded. "I think we can. Roc?"

Rocco shrugged it off. "Fuck it, I'm outvoted anyway."

Renata turned to Connor. "So, who did you kill?"

"The same guy ye were goin' for."

She paused, then said, "What?"

"It was pure luck we found him, but we got him."

"Got  _who?_ "

Connor and Murphy traded looks of puzzlement before Connor went on, "The pimp."

"What pimp?"

" _Your_ pimp."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she asked.

"The guy who was in the ER after St. Patty's," Murphy told her.

"That was Benny," Renata replied, as if that explained everything. "He's a pimp, but he sure as fuck ain't _my_ pimp. Jesus Christ, boys, I'm not a hooker."

"You're not?" Rocco interjected.

She rolled her eyes. "No need to sound so disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed, I just thought-"

"The point is," Connor cut him off, "he's dead. We got him."

She looked from one man to the next, as if searching their faces for lies. "You really killed him?"

"Well, Roc did," Murphy replied, and Rocco gave a mock salute.

"That's great," Renata said, and the brothers began to smile before she added, "but he's not who I was there for."

The smiles vanished.

Renata stifled a yawn and took another long pull from her cigarette. The bruises on her face stood out stark and unforgiving in the fluorescent light at the hospital's entrance. A bandage now covered the gash on her leg, but the attempt to conceal the injury only made it more obvious. "How's the leg?" Murphy inquired.

"Another minute and they might have had to amputate," she told him, then she grinned to show she was joking. "Not too bad," she went on. "Eight stitches, and luckily no infection."

"How'd ye get like this?" Connor asked.

She sighed and finished the cigarette, avoiding the question. "It's a long story."

"And if you weren't after the guy we killed," Rocco asked, "who _were_ you looking for?"

She tossed the cigarette butt away and exhaled a thin stream of smoke and vapor into the cold air, answering, "The piece of shit that did this to me." She hitched her backpack farther up on her shoulder and said, "Well, guys, it's been weird. Thanks for the lift and all, but I ought to head out."

"Is there anywhere we can drive ye to?" Connor offered. "Ma'd kill us if she knew we left a lady standin on the fuckin sidewalk. I know ye said home is a bad idea, but..."

"Oh, how chivalrous, but no. I'll probably just find a motel or something."

"Or somethin?" Murphy repeated. "Ye don't sound too sure a yerself, Ingrid Bergman."

She gave a wry smile. "Renata Malone," she said, holding out her hand. "How's it going?"

"Murphy MacManus," he replied, shaking her hand, "and I'll agree with ye on the weird part."

"Hm." She turned to Connor and shook his hand as well. "Connor MacManus, I presume."

"Aye."

She reached Rocco last. "And I guess I kinda feel bad about trying to kill you," she said.

"Hell, everyone's trying to kill me lately," he told her.

She gave a wolfish grin and turned away, weaving slightly as she walked.

"What, ye mean ye're not tellin us about the piece a shit?" Connor asked after her.

"Like I said, it's a long story," she called over her shoulder. "Do yourselves a favor, and stay out of it."

"Well, hang on, maybe we can help ye," Murphy offered.

She laughed. "What, you mean you're gonna whack the guy for me?"

"If he deserves it, why the hell not?"

Connor gave him a sharp nudge with his elbow to quiet him.

She stopped in her tracks and turned, looking from one brother to the other. "You're serious?" she asked.

They traded glances, then Connor shrugged and they nodded. She looked disbelieving, eyes wide and stunned. "Jesus Christ," she said, "who the fuck are you people?" They didn't answer and she chewed her bottom lip and folded her arms, tapping her foot against the sidewalk and deep in thought. The three men stood waiting, smoking another cigarette and watching her oscillate on the pavement. She finally returned to them and said, "I think read about you guys in the paper. You killed those mobsters on the south side."

"Self-defense," Connor told her, flicking away his cigarette.

"That's what the press said."

"That's the truth," Murphy told her.

She raised her hands in a placating gesture. "No one's arguing that," she said. "I'm just trying to decide what I should do here. You would really kill this guy?"

"Does he deserve it?" Connor asked.

She gestured to her bruised face. "You see this?" she asked. "This is a fucking _preview_. I was lucky to get out with less than what this guy usually dishes out. I mean it, you don't want to get mixed up in this shit."

"An' ye think ye'll have better luck next time?" Connor asked. "Ye're out of it now, why not stay that way?"

She shook her head. "Can't do that," she replied. "It's something I gotta do."

Connor and Murphy looked long and hard at each other, weighing the options for a moment, then Murphy said, "We understand doin what ye gotta do, but if ye gotta do it, then... I mean, look at ye. Ye're a fuckin mess."

"Wow, are you always so smooth with the ladies?"

"Just fuckin think about it," Connor told her. "Ye're this bad off now, what if shit goes bad again, while ye're doin what ye gotta do?"

She heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm serious, this is some fucked up shit I'm in. You don't want to get involved if you don't have to."

"Actually, we kinda do. It's part a the whole good Samaritan thing."

A look of incredulity spread across her face and she shook her head. "You guys are something else."

"No shit," Rocco agreed. "You should have seen Copley Plaza."

"All right, Roc, that's enough," Connor told him.

"Hang on, wait a second," she said, looking as though something had just occurred to her. "MacManus, right? That's what you said?"

"Aye," Murphy replied.

Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God!" she burst out. "I _knew_ I recognized you from somewhere! We used to be neighbors!" Connor and Murphy looked confused, so she went on, "The Reids, that couple on the third floor, they're relatives of my ex-boyfriend! We stayed with them for about a month and a half around...four years ago?" They still looked blank and she asked, "You don't remember?"

"Not off the top of our heads," Connor replied. "Not sayin ye're wrong, but..."

"Hate to break up the reunion here," Rocco cut in, "but we got the fuckin cops back here and I'd rather get the fuck off the street-"

"Yeah, this _does_ look shady," Renata agreed, "three guys and a girl blowing smoke outside." She eyed the old cigarette butts littering the curb and landscaping where others before them had stood in their place smoking. "I'm sure nobody ever did that before."

"Nah, wait," Murphy said, "I think I remember passin ye a couple a times in the building...ye were drunk a lot, weren't ye?"

She nodded. "That sounds about right. So... This might be a little off the wall, all things considered, but do you mind doing me a favor? Can I crash at your place tonight? I mean, we're not _total_ strangers, after all."

"Strange enough for me," Rocco grumbled. "Can we just go?"

Murphy looked to Connor. "What do ye think? For a neighbor?"

He shrugged. "What the fuck. It's just one night."

"Right, then. Let's get out of here."

They headed across the parking lot to the car, and Renata hesitated again before climbing into the back with Rocco. "We sort of know each other, but this isn't a gang bang, is it?" she asked.

"If it was," Murphy replied, "ye _would_ have woken up cuffed and blindfolded."

She pondered his answer, then nodded. "Good point."

They drove to a decrepit brick building in Southie, and Rocco took the car from there and drove away. Renata looked up at the building and said, "Just as I remember it."

"Rent's gone up a bit," Murphy remarked.

"It still better be cheap in a place like this," she replied as they went inside. They took the elevator to the fifth floor and she cast a critical look around the shabby studio apartment as they entered. "Dirt cheap," she amended.

"It's got a roof and running water," Connor said, taking off his coat and holster and hanging his rosary by the door. "That's all ye need, really."

"Hm." Her eyes traveled over the sparse accomodations, from the scratch-and-dent appliances and broken down couch to the table littered with ash trays and beer cans and the mattress sets laying on bare floor, to the far corner of the room, landing on exposed plumbing. "You don't even have a fucking toilet!"

"It's in the mail," Murphy told her. "Should be here next week."

She sighed. "Well, whatever works for you." She set her backpack down on the floor and the broken bottle inside rattled slightly. She went to the couch and took off her boots, wiggling her cramped toes before stretching out, using her coat as a blanket and tucking her arm under her head for a pillow.

Connor and Murphy watched her for a moment like an exhibit at a museum, and Connor offered, "Ye know, ye could take one a the beds..."

"Nope," she replied, closing her eyes. "I'm down for the night. It's too late to move." She was quiet for a moment, then opened her eyes again and said, "Thanks again for the ride, and all the other shit."

He shrugged and looked back at his brother. One glance, and he knew they were both second-guessing this arrangement. It was one thing to have driven her to the hospital, but maybe another to bring her back home. It was nothing like the certainty of their revelation in the Boston PD holding cell; they both shared an uneasy feeling that in doing so small a favor for this woman they barely remembered, they had set some new game in motion. She was an upset of the natural order, one that would be harder to adjust to. Odd that after having killed over a dozen men in less than a week with faith, nerves, and morals intact, it was a drunk stripper that rocked the boat.

Murphy leaned closer to Connor and lowered his voice. "Just one night?"

Connor nodded. "We'll see if we can do this job for her. If not, she's gone."

Murphy fell silent and them each a beer, and they both tried to ignore the woman asleep on the couch. After a time they had almost convinced themselves nothing was out of the ordinary...but each caught the other sneaking glances at her, and they kept quiet so as not to disturb her.


	5. Shakedown At the Sin Bin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter. Just a heads-up...

Renata lit a cigarette and heaved a sigh, rolling her head back and forth on her shoulders. She had woken up complaining of her night spent on the couch, moving gingerly as she stretched her sore limbs, then she reached for her backpack, removing a pill from a prescription bottle and swallowing it. "Christ, I'm sore in places I didn't even know I had," she said. "Can I bum a smoke?"

Murphy handed her a pack of Marlboros. He and Connor sat side by side opposite her at the table, waiting for her to speak.

She sat smoking for a moment, then straightened up. "All right," she said, "what do you want to know?"

"Who is this guy," Connor replied, "an' what did he do."

Renata nodded. "That's a long story, and I'll have to tell it all."

"Fine."

She drew her backpack closer, fiddling with one of the zippers. "First thing you need to know," she said, "there is no such thing as a legitimate strip club, at least so far as I know. It's pretty much safe to assume every last one of them is corrupt. Take the Sin Bin; it looks trashy enough to start with, but it's a fucking marketplace of some really nasty shit. Drugs, sex, weapons, you want it and you got it."

"Even the dancers?" Murphy asked.

She laughed with little humor. "Especially the dancers! The ones selling certain commodities get a cut of the profit, and the others are whores reporting back to the owner's pimp buddy. You know, the one you killed."

"So, what're ye sellin?" Connor asked.

"Well, I wasn't lying when I said I'm not a hooker." She set her backpack at her feet, unzipped it, and glanced up at the brothers. "Can I trust you not to narc on me?" she said.

They nodded and she took a deep breath as she reached inside the bag. She rummaged through the contents, careful to avoid the broken glass, and drew out several prescription bottles. "Valium," she announced, setting a bottle on the couch, "Percocet," another bottle, "and a little ecstasy." She tossed a single bottle devoid of a label with the others and continued. "Marcus, the owner, he gets these in bulk and I sell them by the pill. A bottle of, say, fifty for less than ten bucks, then turn around and sell them for nine or ten a pop, you do the math. And the ex goes for higher."

"So ye're a dealer," Connor said.

She shrugged, looking defensive. "I needed the money. It was a matter of necessity, not choice."

"An' ye had no other options? I'm sure ye coulda made another career choice."

"Said the guy who killed one man and is offering to do another," she replied bluntly. "I was out on my ass with no other options. I could sell drugs or pussy, and a few pills to keep a roof over my head and food in the fridge seemed like the better deal. It's not like anyone grows up _wanting_ to get involved in this kind of thing, but shit happens."

" Aye, ye were in a jam an' had ta think a somethin," Murphy agreed, urging her to continue her story. "What went wrong?"

"You mean how did I end up sneaking in the back door with a knife? I tried to beat the system. I was charging more money per pill and pocketing the extra. I was giving a dance for a guy on St. Patrick's Day when he went crazy and started pounding on me; that's how I was in the emergency room that day. That's when Marcus figured out what I was up to." She flicked ash off the cigarette—

* * *

_Three days earlier_

Marcus was smoking a cigar by the window when she got into the office. Reg, the manager of the Sin Bin and overseer of pharmaceutical sales stood at one end of the room toying with a putting machine. Benny, that glorified whoremaster, steered her to stand in front of the desk before releasing the grip he had on her arm and going to sit in the swivel chair. He had brought her straight to the club after dragging her out of the emergency room, on Marcus's order no doubt, which could only mean trouble.

Renata clutched her purse and gazed at the three men. Marcus continued to stare out the window at the alley behind the club; average height, thinning blond hair neatly combed, immaculate suit with a perfectly arranged neck tie...he might have been an ordinary businessman, but then he turned and looked her in the eye and the illusion was gone. She had known the instant she first met that stare that this wasn't a man to cross. The calculation and cunning behind those dark eyes was a wall of black ice that intimidated the weak and even put the strong-willed on edge. Above board or below the table, he was an entrepreneur with a ruthless track record of obliterating every threat and nuisance.

"Renata," he said, a metallic note in his voice that grated on the nerves and always made her irritable, "good to have you back with us after your incident."

She didn't reply, but looked down at Benny. An associate of Marcus's in the market of pleasure, he ran a prostitution ring with a few of his girls dancing in the club. He was best described as a weasel of a human being with a little man complex; she was taller than him when she was in heels, and she was only five foot seven. He compensated for his stature with cockiness and swagger, always trying to convince those around him that he was a player with his shiny suits, gold chains, and the diamond ring on his right hand. He backhanded one of the girls he had charge of with that hand once, and she still had the scar from that ring. The morning he took Renata from the hospital was the most she'd had to do with him, but it was more than enough for her. He looked up at her with such an oily smile she looked away again in disgust.

"Now, I know how eager you must be to get home and relax, and I've got to say, you've looked better," Marcus went on.

 _Fuck you_ , she thought.

"But I've got a few matters that need clearing up first. Do you think you can help me with that?"

She shrugged, trying to seem more relaxed than she was. "I can try," she replied. "What's the problem?"

Off at the other side of the room, Reg laughed to himself. She didn't bother looking at him. He was the last person on earth she wanted to see, and it was a sick joke that she was stuck with him nearly every night. She could feel his eyes on her the moment she walked in the door, when she was onstage, with a customer, right up until she left the club. Her skin crawled as she stood in the office with him, knowing what he was thinking about when he stared at her the way he did, and she wrapped her coat more tightly around herself as if it would shield her from his gaze.

"I've heard some interesting stories since last night," Marcus told her. Ash fell from the end of his cigar and landed on the carpet, but he paid it no attention. "The first one came from the gentleman who assaulted you. Can you guess what he had to say?"

She shook her head, trying to remain calm and cool. Fear would numb her mind and choke out thought if she let it, and she couldn't afford to panic and give herself away now.

"He said he's a regular customer of yours; he comes in a few nights a week and gets a dance and a hit. But he went to another girl last week for the same shit, and she gave him the same product at a different rate. We checked with her, and she's charging the rate we agreed on. Your friend tells us he's been paying you more, but we can't account for any of this extra money."

 _Curtis, you miserable piece of shit.._.After she'd finished his lap dance, he confronted her about her pricing. Trish didn't charge half as much, he complained, and he wanted to start paying the smaller rate or he would go to her boss. Renata balked and he lost his temper. It took two bouncers to get him off her and while they were throwing him out, she snuck off to the hospital, half wondering if she should pack up and run while she had the chance, before Curtis could start running his mouth. But then Benny caught up with her, and it was too late.

"Now, I didn't want to jump to conclusions," Marcus went on, "so we asked more of your regulars, and it's the damnedest thing, but they all had the same story. They all pay the same amount, and it's considerably higher than the rates we agreed on for you. We crunched the numbers, and you're shown as pulling in less than what we've projected, based on this special rate of yours. So you see where we've gotten confused, Renata. Something doesn't add up here. There's an awful lot of money missing, and we have a good idea where it went."

She remained still and silent, certain that one word or movement would betray her. The click and shuffle of Reg's putting machine as he sent the ball into it and it ejected again crowded her head and tore at her nerves, making her jumpier than she already was. Marcus stepped towards her and it took all her self-control not to turn and flee.

"Renata," he said, raising his hand and combing his fingers through her hair, "I thought we were friends. I considered you trustworthy over all the other bitches on my staff, and I've trusted you with secrets others have died protecting. We were _partners_." He tightened his grip on her hair and held her gaze locked with his, ice boring into stone. "And then you betray me like this."

She saw him signal to Reg, who moved closer and cracked the putter across the backs of her knees. She let out a cry at the explosion of pain and dropped to the floor, Marcus still maintaining his hold on her. "I ought to kill you here and now, but I want my money out of you first, so I'll tell you what's going to happen next. You're going to stay here with your friend Reg, and Benny and I are going to your apartment to find what you've stolen. And you'd better hope we find it, because I'll get it out of you one way or another, and you won't like the alternative." He glanced over at Reg and said, "I want her in one piece when I get back. Other than that, she's all yours."

He released her and she finally looked at Reg, over six feet tall and built like a mountain, all muscle and bone with a taste for blood. Whenever Marcus needed someone punished, he put Reg on the job, and the results were brutal. There was malice in those eyes to be allowed to lay hands at last on this prize he coveted most, and her fear finally consumed her.

"We'll leave you to it," Marcus said, and he and Benny headed for the door, Benny with his oily smile still in place.

"No!" she burst out. "Marcus, wait—"

Reg dealt her another blow with the putter across her shoulders, knocking her face-first to the floor. He kicked her in the stomach, cutting off her scream as the air was forced from her lungs. "This is going to be fun, Renata," he said, his voice rumbling like thunder in the office. He tossed the putter aside, grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, leering down at her. She spent her nights onstage, twirling around a pole often in nothing but skin, but she had never felt so exposed. Mesh and wool didn't shield her from those eyes...plate armor wouldn't shield her. "Oh yeah," he breathed, "this is going to be so much fun."

She struggled to break his grip and he punched her again, and from there it was one hit after another as he knocked her around the office like a rag doll. He slammed her into furniture and threw her against the walls, and no matter how she tried to defend herself, he came at her more relentless than ever. Blow after blow, pain on top of pain...Curtis had worked her over good enough to start with, but he was nowhere as vicious as this. Only when she was sure one more blow would kill her did he seize a fistful of her hair and fling her across the desk, standing behind her and kicking her legs apart. He leaned over her, getting close to her ear, and whispered, "I've wanted to fuck you since you first started working here."

The words passed over her, but then she felt his hand under her skirt and something snapped. Fear and rage exploded in a surge of adrenaline, and she forgot the pain of the beating as every instinct bowed to one command: _fight back._

She jammed her elbow as hard as she could into his stomach; at her angle it wasn't enough to cause any damage, but it caught Reg off guard and he backed away from her, enough for her to stand again. She snatched a glass paperweight off the desk and spun around, swinging at his head, but he blocked her arm and pushed her back onto the desk, his grin back in place. "I was hoping you'd give me trouble."

She didn't answer, twisting her head around in search of a new weapon. Her eyes fell on a letter opener laying harmless on a stack of papers; she grabbed it and stabbed.

The blade sank into the flesh where neck and shoulder met, and it sank deep. Reg screamed in pain and staggered back, and she kicked him in the crotch, sending him sprawling on the floor as blood ran from his neck.

The adrenaline held off the worst of the pain while the crisis was still upon her, but it wouldn't last. She had to get away. She left him on the floor; _He'll get his one day,_ she vowed; then she snatched up her purse where she'd dropped it when he first hit her and hurried to the window. Casting glances back at Reg on the floor and the office door, she forced the window open and crawled through it to the fire escape. The cold steel of the rails and the rungs of the ladders bit into her hands and tempered the fire in her blood, forcing her to dredge up the last of her desperate energy. Almost there, almost there—

Her boots slipped and she fell off the ladder, tumbling through the air before landing hard on the edge of the dumpster behind the club and falling inside. She heard doors slam through the walls and she dug down into the garbage, hiding underneath the trash and listening. There were footsteps outside as Reg staggered outside and searched the alley, then silence. She waited a few more minutes to be safe, pressing her palm to her leg where she had cut it when striking the dumpster, then she crawled out onto the pavement. One heel snapped off her boots as she landed and she staggered, the adrenaline ebbing away and leaving her exhausted and in pain once more. Fighting to stay on her feet, she crept out of the alley and disappeared.

__

* * *

Connor and Murphy sat quietly as Renata finished her story and another cigarette. Her voice remained steady and impassive in the telling, but her hands shook relating the fight with Reg and though she paused for a moment at the end, it seemed something in her was still moving, intent on battle.

"I made it back to my apartment, grabbed some shit, and got the hell out," she said. "They had already looted it by the time I got there, but I wasn't going to stick around in case they came back. That was about..." she counted on her fingers, "three or four days ago."

"Did they find the money?" Connor asked.

"Some of it. They tore open my mattress and found what I'd stashed in there, but they missed all the other hiding places. I've still got most of it."

"An' how much is that?"

"About twenty grand."

The brothers froze in amazement, both of them looking down at the backpack at her feet. She followed their eyes and smiled. "It's not in there. I kept some for pocket money and found a new hiding place for the rest. I sure as hell wasn't about to carry all of it around with me."

"Why didn't ye get outta there before now?" Murphy asked. "Ye were bound ta get caught eventually, so why risk it?"

She shrugged, looking away. "It was dangerous," she agreed, "but you have no idea how hard it is to get out of that business once you're in it. I wanted to, believe me, and as soon as I got the nerve I planned to split. Then the thing with Curtis happened and it went to shit." She took out a third cigarette and held out the pack. "Anyone else interested?"

"Ye mean ye're offerin' me my own shit?" Murphy questioned.

She looked from him to the pack of cigarettes and comprehension struck her. "Oh! Right, and I'm just sitting here burning through them—"

"Nah, ye're fine," he replied, taking two cigs and handing one to Connor. "Next round's on you."

"Fair enough."

The three of them lit up and Connor asked, "So how did ye come ta be workin' there anyway?"

"Another long story," Renata said. "The short version is I came here with a dumb ass boyfriend that left me high, dry and broke. I was living in a shelter and couldn't find work anywhere else." She yawned and stretched, lifting her arms over her head and arching her back. As far as looks went, she was merely ordinary, yet there was something in her movements that drew the eye, a sensuousness that was difficult to ignore; she was beautiful when she moved. Connor and Murphy watched her intently—it would be hard not to even if she wasn't the current anomaly. The mesh top didn't conceal much, not the black bra beneath nor the bruises that covered her skin. Her curves and her injuries were in conflict with each other. She inspired desire and empathy all at once.

There was something curious at work as the brothers looked at her, like a bond being made or a chain being forged. Though she didn't look anything extraordinary, her aura was magnetic; Connor and Murphy found themselves staring at her with no clear idea why. Her story could have suspended belief, but her bruises testified to her honesty, and it was as though in taking her from the club, they had assumed responsibility for her, this strange woman circumstance had set in their path so many times already.

She noticed their scrutiny and cocked an eyebrow. "Eyes back in your heads, boys," she said, lowering her arms and taking a pull from her cigarette. "Let's get back to business, shall we, since you're so eager to be good Samaritans? What else do you think you need to know?"

"How do ye even know yer man's still alive?" Connor asked. "If ye stabbed him..."

She tilted her head to the side and indicated a place on the top of her shoulder just at the base of her neck. "Not fatal," she replied. "He came out looking for me, remember? That's when I got the idea to go back and finish him. I was well into the whiskey by then and it seemed like a good plan." She rolled her eyes in irritation at her own folly. "You know, much as I hate to admit it, it's probably a good thing you abducted me when you did...the state I was in, he would have fucked me after all and probably killed me when he was done."

"Ye weren't much good for anything when we saw ye," Murphy agreed. "The knife was a bit of a surprise, though."

"An' Roc's gun in the car," Connor added.

She smiled and gave her cigarette a flick, scattering ash onto her backpack. "I've always been good at surprises." She ruffled her hair and scratched her scalp. "Ugh, shit, I'm filthy," she groaned. "Can I use your shower?"

"If ye don't mind playin Russian roulette with the hot water," Murphy replied.

She nodded and cast a critical eye across the room where the showers were open to the rest of the apartment, then shook her head and made a tsking noise with her tongue against her teeth. "Yeah, that's not going to work," she said. "You guys are going to have to step out and give me a minute."

"What?" Murphy said, taken aback.

"Well, I can't have you in here to watch," she replied, as if it was common sense. "Show some respect for my girlish modesty, please?"

Connor nudged his brother and got to his feet. "C'mon, Murph," he said. "Ye know what Ma'd say."

 

 


	6. Personal

"Be polite ta guests but run yer own house," Murphy remarked. "That's what Ma'd say."

He and Connor stood out in the hallway, leaning against the wall with arms folded. The sound of running water issued from inside the loft, along with infrequent, tuneless whistling. Connor laughed and said, "She'd love that one, bein' run outta our own place by a girl. Kinda funny, ain't it?"

"Easy for you ta say," Murphy replied. "She went through half my smokes an' still has the rest." He paused, then smiled. "Ye know, that _is_ a good one."

They both glanced at the door, standing quietly for a moment, then Murphy asked, "So what do ye think?"

"Of her?" Connor replied, nodding towards the door.

"Aye."

"Well, she's up shite creek, ain't she? Fleecin her boss outta that kind a loot, it's a fuckin wonder they didn't put her down on the spot."

"Maybe they don't know how much she cheated them for," Murphy pointed out. "Or maybe she's lyin about the money."

Connor shook his head. "Nah, she was tellin the truth. Christ knows what she's done with it, but there's more somewhere, enough ta be takin care of herself an' get the fuck outta here."

"But why didn't she, then? Why hang around?"

"Looks like she's set on killin this motherfucker. Can't say I hold it against her."

"She stole twenty grand. She knew she had ta be askin for trouble when they found out."

"She didn't ask ta be raped, Murph, an' it was a fuckin close call on that."

"Aye, I agree, he's got it comin. But she's gotta be fuckin crazy ta do somethin like that, ye think?"

"Maybe... Either crazy or desperate."

They waited and waited, denied access to their own apartment and slowly growing more impatient. Murphy finally squared his shoulders and headed for the door. "Right, this is a fuckin crock," he muttered as he raised his hand to knock. "She can take girlish modesty and shove it up her—"

"Wait, now," Connor told him. "Just wait a bit. It should be any minute now..."

A few moments later, they heard a shrill yelp and a few curses, then the water turned off.

"There ye have it," Connor said. "Ye warned her about the hot water."

Murphy grinned and laughed.

It wasn't long after that the door opened and Renata appeared, wearing a gray cable-knit sweater, faded jeans, and old sneakers. Her hair hung wet and tangled and one leg of her jeans was damp to the knee, and once again the smell of whiskey lingered around her.

"Half the shit in my bag's soaked," she said. "I took the liberty of washing my clothes out and I snagged a beer while I was in there." She cracked open a can of Guinness as she spoke, took a swallow, and raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. "Not bad."

Connor and Murphy exchanged glances and she stood back to let them into the apartment. She sat back down on the couch and asked, "So now what?"

"Roc should be on his way over," Murphy said, more to Connor than to Renata.

"Good," Connor replied. "We'll run by the club, take care a business, an' call it a day."

"What day is it?" Renata cut it.

"Thursday."

She nodded. "Reg will be there early," she said. "His shift starts around six but he gets in at four-thirty to get the rest of the crew in line."

"So we've got some time ta kill, then."

"Well, yeah. And I want to go with you when you get him."

"Why?" Murphy asked. "Ye're shot of him either way, and an evil man goes on ta judgment."

"It's personal," she replied. "You understand, right?"

The brothers paused, thinking of the morning Checkov and his comrade came storming in ready to kill. For a moment it was there again, Connor forced to chain himself and watch as they led Murphy outside to execute him, then Murphy watching from the ground as Connor fell fifty feet through empty air in a desperate bid to save him. It was personal enough to start with, but had either of them died that day, the other would have been hell-bent on the Russian's blood.

"Yeah, we get it," Connor told her. He and Murphy took up their previous seats and each lit up a cigarette, then Connor went on, "If it wasn't personal, we wouldn't be sittin here, me an' Murph."

Renata nodded, then asked, "Why are you even doing this? What made you walk into a strip club and decide to kill someone in the first place?"

" _How much should we tell her?"_ Murphy asked, switching to Latin.

From her place on the couch, Renata rolled her eyes.

_"She doesn't need to know everything,"_ Connor told him. _"We're cutting her loose after this is over anyway."_

"Finished getting your story straight?" she asked.

"It's a long one," he said.

She laughed slightly and said, "Then give me the short version."

"Roc was set up. Someone was tryin ta kill him, so we moved in first."

"And Benny?"

"Call it fate if ye like."

"Fine then. But what about Reg? What's he filed under?"

"Evil," Murphy interjected.

She nodded. "All right, I'll give you that one." There was a thoughtful silence and she sipped at her beer for a moment, then asked, "So you're serious about this?"

"Aye," Connor replied. "I guess we are. Is that so hard ta believe?"

"Forgive my skepticism. It's just that nobody does favors for anybody, and they definitely don't offer to fucking  _kill_ people for random strangers."

"Ye said last night, we're not total strangers," Murphy told her. "An' who says it's not a favor ta society itself, if some bad motherfucker gets what he deserves?"

"Oh, so that's it? You just run across an evil guy and whack him?"

They were spared answering by a knock on the door. "That'll be Roc," Murphy said, and he opened the door for him. Rocco walked into the apartment, gave Renata a nod of acknowledgment, then asked the brothers, "So, what's the game plan?"

"We're gonna take care a this guy," Connor informed him. "He'll be at the club later. We get in, finish him, an' get out, game over."

"Good," Rocco went on, "because I've been thinking about who we should do next—"

Connor shook his head slightly and gave a pointed look at Renata; she rolled her eyes again and finished off the beer, then got to her feet and put on her coat. "I'll leave you gents to talk," she said. "Is that store still there on the corner, so I can get some cigs?"

"Up the road on the left as ye walk out," Murphy reminded her. "'Bout three blocks."

She nodded, took one last cigarette from the half-empty pack on the table, tucked her broken boots under her arm, and walked out.

Rocco watched her leave, then pointed after her with his thumb. "She's not in?" he asked.

"Fuck no," Connor replied.

"But you still think we can trust her?"

"Sure, to a point."

Rocco nodded and dropped into a chair. "How's this going to work tonight?"

"Do ye know the manager when ye see him?"

"Pretty fuckin hard not to. The guy's a brick wall and scary as fuck. I saw him break up a fight once, and he put a guy into the wall so hard he damn near when through the fuckin thing."

"A bullet'll take him down all the same," Murphy said.

Rocco looked from one to the other. "The manager is the one we're after?" he asked, fitting the pieces together. "He's the one who roughed her up?"

They nodded.

"Then she's damn lucky she's still breathing," he said.

Connor shook his head. "He was under orders, an' he had somethin else in mind besides. Guess she stabbed him an' made a break for it."

"Orders? From who?"

"The owner," Murphy answered. "He's runnin drugs through there, with the dancers all dealin for him."

"Sounds like a low life..."

"Aye..."

Renata returned ten minutes later with several grocery bags and missing her boots, likely having thrown them in a dumpster somewhere. She sat down on the couch, opened one of the bags, and took out two packs of cigarettes. She tossed one to Murphy and stuffed the other into her backpack, along with half a dozen candy bars and a bag of Twizzlers. The last thing she unpacked was a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. She tore off the paper and broke the seal on the bottle, then uncapped it and took several long gulps. She shivered as she lowered the bottle and sighed, "Ah, that's better..."

"Startin early?" Connor asked. "It's not even noon."

"Just a nip to tide me over," she replied. "Does anyone else need one?"

They all shook their heads and she stashed the bottle safely in her backpack, then she leaned back on the couch, her hand pressed to her leg where the gash was stitched and bandaged. "Shit, that stings," she muttered.

"Doin' too bad?" Murphy asked.

"I suppose I'll live," she said, "but walking was a bitch. I probably ought to lay low for awhile." She opened the bag of Twizzlers and stretched her leg out in front of her, chewing on a strand of licorice and acting for all the world as if she belonged there.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco sat silent for a moment, then Connor asked, "Where do ye plan on goin from here?"

Renata shrugged. "I guess I'll head downstairs and see if the Reids feel accommodating."

"When?"

"Soon." She looked up at him and gave a sly smile. "You act like you want to get rid of me."

He gestured around the loft. "Well, ye can see we're not exactly set up for guests."

"Yeah, I know. This couch sucks." She shifted around a bit and added, "But I tell you, I could get used to walking in to such good-looking men." They all smiled and she finished, "And then Rocco."

The brothers shared a laugh and Rocco's smile vanished. "I remember you now," he said. "Everyone said you were a fuckin smart ass."

"Better a smart ass than a dumb ass," she replied with that wolfish grin.

* * *

It was midafternoon when the Lincoln pulled up outside the Sin Bin. The lights were off, the doors were closed, and there wasn't a soul around but for one squad car parked in front of the club; the cop inside had a newspaper folded open against the steering wheel and was thumbing through it, looking bored.

"Well, shit," Rocco cursed from the driver's seat. "Now what?"

"They've got a crime scene in there," Renata replied from the back seat. "They _would_ have closed the place, wouldn't they?"

"S'pose we shoulda thought a that," Connor chimed in from the seat next to her.

"So what next?" Murphy asked, riding shotgun.

"You're still going to get Reg, right?" Renata said.

"Aye. But where?"

"His house, I guess. I was over there to pick up my supply once, I know where it is."

"Where's that?"

"Across town. Some of the bouncers rent space from him, it's a pretty big house. If he's not here, he's probably there."

"Then let's go," Rocco said, putting the car in gear and driving away.

"Hold up," she said, "not so fast. We can't go over there today."

"Why not?" Connor asked her.

"Because I can't walk too good with my leg sewn up, and you're not going in without me."

"What?"

Renata threw her hands in exasperation. "We've been over this," she said. "I'm coming with you when you get him."

"No one said nothin about ye comin in."

"Well, what do you expect me to do, sit in the car and keep watch?"

"What did ye _think_ you were gonna do?" Murphy cut in, twisting in his seat to look back at her.

"The bastard half killed me and tried to rape me," she shot back, "so I _thought_ I was going to fucking watch him die!"

"We get it," Connor told her, "it's personal. But we're not in the business a revenge, ye know? That's not what we're about."

"Then what _is_ your business?" she demanded. "What is it that sets you apart from other hitmen?"

"Can we save this conversation for later?" Rocco asked. "Just tell me where the fuck I'm driving."

"Where's this guy live, Renata?" Murphy asked.

"Well, shit," she said, snapping her fingers as if in recollection. "I'm not sure I remember after all."

"What the fuck?" Connor interjected. "Quit fuckin around an' just tell us where he lives!"

"I'm going with you, or no one's going at all."

The brothers traded looks of exasperation, thinking the same thing. Wronged or not, injured or otherwise, this hellcat woman was trouble with a capital T. "We could walk the fuck away an' forget the whole thing," Murphy fired at her.

"You won't," she replied, confidence touching on arrogance. "He's an evil man, remember? You want to waste him too much to walk away."

"An' ye want him done too much not ta tell us," Connor argued. "The world's full enough of assholes an' we have better things ta do than waste time bitchin over one motherfucker."

Renata folded her arms and leaned back in the seat, looking stubborn. Some of the bruises on her face had begun to fade, but the worst of them stood out angry and lurid, and there was a hard fury in her eyes tightly coiled and ready to spring. "Reggie McDowell is a fucking monster if I ever saw one," she said. "Bad as I want him dead, it's nothing to how I want to see it with my own eyes."

There was silence in the car save the hum of the engine. With no destination, Rocco drove aimlessly, turning on whatever streets seemed to suit him. Renata stared angrily out the window, thinking of all those uneasy nights at the club when she could feel Reg watching her from across the room, all the vile shit he had done to the girls in his charge and the nightmare she had escaped in the office just days ago. Connor sat next to her, thinking deeply and casting her a glance on occasion. It was personal for her, yes, but maybe it was _too_ personal. If she came with them when they killed this guy, how could they trust her to keep a cool head? And yet there was the deal with Checkov...if he'd killed Murph, it would never be enough just to hear the Russian was dead. He would want to see it go down, if not kill the son of a bitch himself—how could they deny the same to Renata?

"We can't rush in," he said at last. "We gotta watch this guy an' come up with a plan. That'll give Renata time ta heal, an' then we'll _talk—_ " he shot a serious look at her and she glared back, "about her comin with us."

In the passenger seat, Murphy shrugged. "Works for me," he said. "Roc knew Vincenzo's habits, an' that was pretty useful. Renata, what do ye know about yer man?"

"He's a golfer," she replied. She still had welts across her knees and shoulders where he'd hit her with the putter. _Wonder what it would be like to beat him with his own driver..._

"What else?"

"Couldn't tell you. I wasn't trying to make friends with him." She rolled down her window an inch or two and lit a cigarette. "So it's a stakeout today?"

"I think it's wisest," Connor replied.

Rocco groaned. "We're just going to sit around and watch this bum's house?" he asked.

"Cheer up, Rocco," Renata told him. "I brought licorice and booze."

* * *

Reg's house was in an upscale neighborhood, but there was still something derelict about the faded paint, the overgrown landscaping, and the overflowing trash can sitting on the curb. There were two cars in the driveway, and Renata recognized one immediately. "That's his, the gray SUV," she said. "He's in there right now."

"What does a strip club manager do on a day off?" Rocco mused aloud.

"Beats me." She pointed at a window on the uppermost floor. "See that room?" she asked. "Whenever one of Benny's girls forgets her place, he sends her to stay there for a few days and all the guys volunteer to straighten her out. There was one girl who used to dance, Stacy, she kept acting up, so they brought her here and got her on heroin."

"I remember Stacy," Rocco said. "Perky blonde, kinda horsefaced but with killer tits? She stop working there?"

"They got her on fucking heroin, of course she stopped working there," she snapped.

"Shit, just asking a fuckin question..."

"Well, now you know. That's how shit happens over here."

"Christ," Connor murmured in disbelief.

"I don't think Christ had much to do with it," she told him.

"Connor, this has gotta be huge shit," Murphy told his brother. "A fuckin pimp gettin his girls hooked on shit like that, an' his partner in on the whole fuckin thing..."

Renata stared up at the window, her expression stony. "It's not a pretty picture," she agreed darkly. She sat in silence, then drew the bag of Twizzlers out of her backpack. "Anyone?" she offered. Connor and Rocco declined, but Murphy shrugged and helped himself to a few strands. She took a piece for herself, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "It's a nice afternoon...if I was a golf enthusiast with a day off, I'd schedule a tee time."

"Ye think that's what he did?" Murphy asked.

Renata shrugged. "It's possible."

They waited and watched with only an occasional passing car or pedestrian to prove there was life in the neighborhood. Rocco started nodding off behind the wheel and Renata began to fidget restlessly, but Connor and Murphy remained focused and alert. Just as Rocco's first snores broke the silence, Murphy nudged him awake. "Look, someone's comin out."

Renata leaned up, gazing hard at the man walking out the front door of the house. "That's him," she said, "that's Reg."

"Christ," Murphy swore, "he's fuckin huge!"

"Ye thought ye could take him with yer pigsticker?" Connor demanded incredulously.

Reg carried a bag of golf clubs to the gray SUV and loaded them up, then got in the car and drove away. Renata tapped Murphy on the shoulder and said, "Tee time. What did I tell you?"

Murphy nodded. "Good call."

"What do we do now?"

"What do ye know about the house?" Connor asked.

"Not much," she said. "Should we take a closer look?"

"Not with someone in the house," he said. "Could come walking out the front door like our man Reg."

"Ye think we're done for the day?" Murphy asked.

"Aye. An' we might head over earlier next time, get a better idea a who's comin in an' out."

Rocco shook his head. "I'm sitting that one out. I'm not cut out for stalking, I can only hang around for so much of this shit."

"Fine then. Murph, we need ta stop at McKennon's an' stock up."

"No offense, guys," Renata broke in, "but is this really the time to be discussing your grocery shopping?"

"Who said anythin about fuckin groceries?" Connor asked.

She caught his tone and looked up into his eyes, serious and guarded. Judging by their attitude about her livelihood, they weren't on drugs, and he wouldn't be so stern about a liquor retailer... "Is McKennon an arms dealer?" she concluded.

"Why do ye ask?"

"So that's a yes?"

All three men turned to stare at her, and she shrugged, taking another Twizzler. "It seemed like a fair question. You already know what I'm packing."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Rocco queried.

She snapped the Twizzler in half before biting off one end. "Nope."

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but we do."

"Ah." She nodded. "No girls allowed, is that it?"

"It's just there's no point bringin ye all the way in," Murphy explained, "not just for one job. Right, Connor?"

"Sounds like ye're talkin sense," Connor replied.

Renata waved it off. "All right, I can tell when I'm not wanted. If you drop me downtown, I'll get out of your hair. I've got an errand to run anyway."

They went their separate ways when they got back into the city, Renata off on her errand and the brothers leading Rocco back to the south side to their chosen gun dealer. There was plenty of cash from what they collected from the mobsters at Copley Plaza and they were in good standing with McKennon. Laden with ammo and a few new handguns, they loaded up the car and went for a few drinks with Rocco before heading back home. They hauled the munitions to the elevator, got out on the fifth floor, and paused.

Renata was waiting for them.

"I see you've been busy," she said, nodding to their bags. She still had her backpack slung across her shoulder, but there was also a canvas duffel on the ground at her feet.

"What are ye doin' here?" Connor asked. "Weren't ye lookin in on the Reids?"

"I did," she replied. "They didn't remember me too well...well, I _should_ say they didn't have fond memories of me. And I guess they haven't heard shit out of cousin Kevin in a couple years, so they told me to hit the bricks."

"What about a motel?" Murphy asked.

"Well, I thought about that," she answered, "and the more I did, the more I don't like the idea of letting you two out of my sight. For all I know, I could be sitting on my thumb at the Red Roof while you're off nailing Reg without me."

"We said we're givin it a few days," Murphy told her. "Ye have our word on that."

"And it's nothing personal, but I don't take anyone at their word. I've been screwed over too many times."

"Ye got issues, Miss Malone," Connor said, moving towards the front door.

Renata blocked him and said, "Hold your horses, Mr. MacManus. I've got a proposal for you." She nudged her duffel with her foot and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Connor looked down at the bag. "What's that?"

"What do you think it is? It's everything I embezzled from Marcus."

"Ye need a better argument than that," Murphy informed her. "We're not interested in drug money."

"No, you prefer blood money," she retorted.

"What makes ye think that?"

"Hitmen generally get paid for their work, right?"

"We're not hitmen," Connor said. "Now move on, ye're gettin on my nerves."

"You haven't even heard my proposal yet," she protested.

"Ye wanna pay us not ta leave ye out of it when we take Reg. We'd already figured as much."

"Well, yes and no," she replied. "I want to stay here."

"Ye're still wasted," Murphy said.

"No, I'm serious. Until Reg is out of the picture, I want to know you two aren't going to take off and whack him, then I'll go on my merry way."

"I'm still not hearin much of a proposal," Connor told her.

She held up a hand to silence him and said, "Now, I noticed you're missing a certain fixture in there," she gestured to the door behind her with her thumb, "and I will pay to have it replaced."

The brothers traded looks of amusement. "Did ye hear what I just heard?" Connor asked.

"Aye," Murphy replied. "Sounds like she's buyin us off with a fuckin toilet."

"A bad ass fucking toilet," Renata added. "With an automatic flush, or something else fancy. And I'll cover the installation costs..." They didn't respond, so she played her trump card. "And I'll replace the car window I broke."

Connor chuckled. "Never had a girl so eager ta sleep on the couch," he commented.

"The couch sucks," she went on, "but motels scare the shit out of me. And have you ever slept behind trash cans before? Now _that's_ a bitch."

"He mighta blacked out on the way home from the local an' ended sleepin at a few bus stops," Murphy joked.

They all shared a laugh and Renata said, "See what I mean? We're all getting along so well, I'd hate to put an end to it so fast."

"I dunno..." Connor said. "Three's a crowd, ain't it?"

"Hell no. When I was growing up, three was company."

He smiled and looked at Murphy, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "All right," Connor told her, "what the hell. We got ourselves a flatmate, Murph."

Renata winked and flashed a devious smile. "Let's get inside," she said. "I've still got laundry hanging up in there." She picked up the duffel and shifted awkwardly in her injured leg. "Jesus, that's heavier than you'd think it would be."

"Where the fuck did ye stash twenty grand?" Connor asked, reaching past her to unlock the door.

"Halfway down the ladder into the sewer under the club," she answered, then paused. "Three prepositions in one sentence...we'd call that overachieving in my high school English class."

"Ye mean ye fuckin remember high school English class?" Connor asked, sounding mildly amused.

"Well, fuck yeah. English, literature, those were the only classes I got straight A's in. I've always gotten along with that shit."

Connor smiled slightly. "Didn't see that comin, Miss Malone."

"I told you, I'm good at surprises. What are you guys good at?"

"Drinkin, fightin, being polite an' charming," Murphy told her. "We're pretty fuckin handy with languages as well, an' ye should hear how many times Roc can fit the word 'fuck' in a sentence. Nearly every part a speech covered."

"Good. So I should fit right in."

"Depends. What booze do ye favor?"

"Jack Daniels."

Murphy shook his head. "We'll have ta introduce ye to Hennessy."

"Then I'm in the club?"

He looked her up and down, and she took the opportunity to do the same to him and Connor. "Ye never know. Ye might be on yer way."

 


	7. Four Rounds

Connor flicked on the lights as they walked in and he and Murphy hung their rosaries and deposited their bags on his bed. Renata set her backpack and duffel bag at the end of the couch, and the rattle of pills in plastic bottles echoed strangely in the quiet apartment.

"One rule," Connor told her, "ye can't have that shit in here. It's gotta go."

She looked down at her backpack. "Is there a problem with it? It's just meds."

"The fuck it is. We don't want it here."

"Do you know how much that shit is worth?"

"Don't care."

Renata looked to Murphy, who told her, "Dealin is in the past. If ye wanna stay, ye gotta get rid of it."

"So, what, are you boys trying to reform me now?" she asked.

"We're not out for your salvation," Connor said. "Just get rid of it or leave."

She sighed and dropped onto the couch, then began digging bottles out of her backpack. The brothers stood watching her until she finally straightened up and said, "That's all of it, and it's worth a pretty penny, trust me."

"There's, what, ten, eleven bottles here?" Connor asked.

"Thirteen," she corrected. "Once I had enough cash squirrelled away, I was able to swipe entire bottles without anyone noticing. I'd just hand over whatever it was worth and keep the pills."

"Why?" Murphy asked.

"These things are as good as bullion," she replied, giving a bottle of Valium a little shake. "You keep them stored away, and if you ever need money, just cash them in."

"Ye don't say?" Connor asked, unimpressed. He and Murphy collected the bottles and threw them into the garbage, Renata shaking her head as she watched. She lit a cigarette and sat back as they began to sort through the ammunition, dividing it into separate piles and examining the new handguns.

"I'll need one of those when we go for Reg," she announced, flicking ash onto the floor.

"D'ye know how ta use one?" Murphy asked.

"Of course I do. I used to go hunting with my grandpa in the summer."

"We've still got a few days ta discuss it," Connor replied, glancing down the sights of a Glock. "Wait'll the stitches come outta that leg an' we'll talk."

Renata shrugged.

The brothers put the firearms away, and Connor stretched out on his bed and lit a cigarette while Murphy poured three rounds of amber liquor. He handed one to Connor and one to Renata, seating himself at the table and saying, "Here's ta your initiation." She raised her glass to the brothers and they all drank. They studied her face for her reaction and Connor asked, "How was it?"

She coughed and licked the last few drops off her lips as she considered it. "That sure as hell ain't whiskey," she said at last.

"Did anyone say it was?" Murphy asked, smirking slightly. "That's brandy, sweetheart."

"It's Ma's favorite," Connor added, tilting his glass back again to get the drops at the bottom.

Renata nodded thoughtfully. "It's a little different than Jack."

"Ye think?" he replied. "It's been awhile since I tried yer stuff, m'self."

"Really?" She took the bottle out of her backpack and passed it to Murphy. "Set us up, my man." They all set their glasses back on the table as he poured and redistributed, then they drank again. Renata smiled her contentment, but Connor and Murphy looked skeptical. "Disappointing," Connor remarked, returning to his cigarette.

"What?" Renata said. "Come on, now, that's just un-American."

"Got a newsflash for ye, Renata," Murphy told her with a smile, letting his accent speak for itself.

She closed her eyes in a kind of racy appreciation. "I could get used to that accent, too..." She reached up to the ashtray on the table and put out the butt of her cigarette, brushing Murphy's arm so casually it might have been an accident. She leaned back again, tilting her head back to release the smoke before fixing her stare on Connor. "Ma's favorite or not, I wouldn't have pegged you boys for brandy."

"A little home away from home tradition, ye see," he replied.

"Aw, and you brought a third glass," she said with a smile quite different from her usual grin.

He smiled back at her. It wasn't hard to see what she was up to with her smiles and touches. He shot a look at Murphy and judging by the look on his face, his twin was enjoying the attention but wasn't about to take the bait either. He raised his eyebrows significantly. _She works fast, doesn't she?_

Murphy's smirk widened in agreement. _She does indeed._

Renata handed him her glass. "Give me one more of yours."

"Ye best take it easy," Connor warned her. "If ye've really been drinkin that much lately, ye don't need ta push your luck."

"A word on sobriety from an Irishman," she said. "That's a good one."

"Hey, I'm bein' serious," he told her. "I know ye're fond a hospitals, but there oughta be limits somewhere."

"No need to fuss, Mr. MacManus," she replied. "One more and I'm done. It's for luck."

"How's that?" Murphy asked.

"Three rounds," she said, "two Irish and one American. It just feels right."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Won't argue with that. Ye want in?" he asked Connor.

Connor paused, then nodded. "Aye, I'm in."

Murphy poured one more round of Hennessy for each of them and they saluted each other one more time before drinking. Renata lowered her glass again and asked, "Am I in the club yet?"

"We'll see how it goes," Murphy replied. "Ye made a start, at least."

"Hm. Good to know." She kicked off her sneakers and reached for her coat, preparing to go to sleep. "You gents just do your own thing. I'm calling it a night." She lay down, her arm tucked under her head and her legs left uncovered by the coat.

"Here," Connor said, tossing her a pillow. Murphy rose from the table and crossed the apartment, taking a spare blanket from his bed and bringing it to her.

She smiled. "I like this hospitality," she said. "Your mother raised you boys right."

"She'll be pleased ta hear that," Murphy replied, walking away again.

"What, you mean you're not tucking me in, either of you?"

"Wouldn't wanna take hospitality too far. 'Sides, Ma warned us about fast women."

"Fast? Me? Shucks, Murph, I'm just fucking with you. But while you're at it, tell her you're sharing bedding with a stripper, just to see what she says."

The brothers exchanged looks of amusement. "What'd Ma say ta that?" Murphy mused.

"Use condoms," Connor replied.

Renata laughed and set her coat aside, then fluffed Connor's pillow and spread Murphy's blanket over her. She lay down and fidgeted, trying to get comfortable, then settled in and said, "I'll see you in the morning."

Connor sat finishing his cigarette, then put out what was left in an ashtray beside his bed. "Might as well," he said, beginning to undress. Murphy shrugged and followed his example, going to his own bed. Across the room, Renata opened one eye the tiniest bit and watched as they stripped down to boxer shorts, her gaze lingering. Connor's golden skin and chiseled body were certainly worth a second look, and the more she stared the more convinced she was that Adonis was an Irishman. Murphy was paler and not so defined, but no less beautiful. It felt odd to apply that word to men, but she knew no other more fitting. They were beautiful. There was something intense about Murphy, an innate wildness that contrasted sharply with Connor's suave grace; both seemed of easygoing temperament, yet there was a certain power and purpose surrounding them that inspired respect and not a little awe. Her glance raked over the identical tattoos patterned upon their skin; a single word of Latin on one hand followed by a Celtic cross on the same forearm, and the Virgin Mary on the neck. _Nice ink, boys..._

Connor sensed the force of her stare and glanced at her, but she moved faster and closed her eyes again. He watched her for several moments, but the slow rhythm of her breathing announced she was asleep. He walked across the apartment and turned off the light, then got into bed. "G'night, Murph."

"Night."

* * *

Renata lay awake long after Connor and Murphy had fallen asleep. The couch was sunken on one end and a gap between the cushions acted even more like a sink hole, but that wasn't what kept her up. She was still sore and aching from Reg's attack and it was too quiet in the apartment. She had nothing to distract her thoughts.

Reg was there, lurking in the back of her mind even when he wasn't shadowing her in reality. Benny swaggered in and out, along with Marcus, puffing sedately on one of his cigars. She blocked them out, fantasizing a slow and painful death for each of them...well, at least she didn't have to worry about Benny anymore. Connor, Murphy and Rocco had settled that score already.

But as long as she was keeping score, there was still so much to account for.

Her eyes drifted over to the brothers asleep in their beds. Connor's hair was even more disheveled than usual and even as she watched he stirred slightly, scratching absently at his scalp before rolling onto his back and going still again. Murphy, on the other hand, didn't appear to be moving at all, sleeping like a corpse in its grave. If it wasn't for the steady, droning snores coming from his side of the room, she would have wondered if he was alive after all.

They had asked how she came to be in Boston, and she'd given them the abridged version. No, strike that, what she told them was a bare outline devoid of any substance. They didn't need to hear about Kevin Reid, just another loser in a parade of douchebag boyfriends she had somehow convinced herself she was in love with. They didn't need to hear how she had abandoned her mother to follow him all the way from Kansas City only for him to abandon her the instant shit got shittier in Boston. They _really_ didn't need to hear how, at the tender age of twenty-one, she had forsaken whatever innocence survived her wild child high school days of drinking, fighting and screwing in the moment she walked into the Sin Bin.

A fitting name, she reflected, considering what went on in that place. If the boys knew, and if they were serious about rubbing out bad guys, they wouldn't hesitate. If she told them what that place was _really_ like and what Marcus, Reg and Benny were _really_ up to, they would probably go in guns blazing, raining bullets down on every motherfucker in the fucking club. They would scourge the place in a storm of smoke and lead, and it would all be in the past.

If only the past wasn't the fucking problem.

Memories scrolled through her head like a videotape in a malfunctioning VCR, playing, rewinding, pausing on all the bad parts and rushing to the worst parts on fast forward. She did her best to block them out but they kept coming like demons leering and howling from the dark corners of her mind—

She kicked her way free of the blanket and sat up, reaching for her backpack. Her hands shook as she fumbled for the hidden pocket inside one of the seams, cursing the memories and the jittery, anxious feeling that came with going too long without something in her system. The Percocet she had taken that morning wasn't enough to get her through the night, not if she wanted a moment's peace.

She took out the plastic bag that contained her own private stash, sifting through the pills inside. There was a queasy feeling in her stomach like sudden flu, her body screaming its deprivation. Usually she tried to keep the shit in her bloodstream to avoid the feeling, but it was hard to get in the real nip with an audience like the MacManuses. She would have to keep that in mind and be a little more careful.

She popped a few pills into her mouth and took the bottle of Jack Daniel's off the table, washing everything down with a large swallow. Ah, the burn was slow and sweet, as purifying as it was intoxicating. It was amazing how it smothered out the noise in her head, quieting the things that kept her awake. If she had been of a religious nature, she would have called it a miracle.

Rearranging the blanket and trying to get comfortable again, she waited until the side effects took hold and carried her off into oblivion.


	8. The Justice League

"DNA by the back door was female," Duffy announced, brandishing the report. "No match in the system, so a dead end on that, but we got a hit on prints on the back door and the wall by the blood. Belonging to one Renata Malone, booked about four years ago for drunk and disorderly, working on and off at the Sin Bin the past three and a half."

Smecker took the report, glancing over it thoughtfully. "Well, that's one mystery solved."

"What do you think it means?" Greenly asked.

"Most likely just that Miss Renata came to work toasted and banged her head against the wall," he replied.

"Pretty likely," Duffy agreed, looking at another report. "The stain on the carpet was whiskey, and freshly spilled judging by the penetration."

Smecker cast an eye over the mug shot of a young woman looking a little too far gone on drink and set it aside. Dead end. "Anything new on our shooters?"

"Not since the club," Dolly informed him. "It's weird...these guys come out of the blue, leave all these crime scenes in two fucking days, and now what? A day off?"

"They're still out there, Dolly," Smecker assured him, "and they'll pop up again soon. Men this twisted don't stop until they're caught, and these guys have to be pretty frigging twisted."

"Well, what makes you think that?" Greenly questioned. "So far the only victims are thugs. A shitload of mob guys and a couple more crooks for good measure...it's not so much a fuckin crime spree as it is crime fighting."

Smecker raised an eyebrow at him. "You're going down  _that_  road, Greenly?"

The detective shrugged uncertainly. "It's the only connection, ain't it? Most of the vics are definitely mafia, but we got three other bad motherfuckers in the morgue with no mob ties. They got nothing else in common."

Smecker heaved a sigh. As far as the facts went, he was confused. He relied on his ability to see what others missed, but everything he saw lately made little sense. Multiple homicides at three separate scenes, all within forty-eight hours...no evidence, no suspects, and not even any new bodies, which was most confusing of all. If he had learned anything about serial killers in his years on the job, it was that mass murder didn't stop of its own accord.

Confusion did nothing to improve his mood. He turned to the detectives, suddenly annoyed. "Why the hell did you call me down here just to tell me a frigging stripper left blood at the workplace?" he demanded. He needed to think; in the absence of evidence, he could only rely on his brain power. He had his hands full trying to reason through all of this bullshit without having to babysit Boston's finest.

"Didn't know if you wanted to rule it out," Duffy explained. He had been all business handing over the reports, but he looked sheepish now, expecting another of the agent's reprimands.

"Duffy, why  _wouldn't_  we rule out something that has nothing to do with our case?"

"So you think it's unrelated?" Greenly asked.

Smecker gave him a withering look. "Do me a favor and get me a coffee," he told him. "This shit is giving me a headache."

Greenly looked affronted...again. "You gotta be fuckin kidding me!"

"Maybe next time you'll be so lucky."

Greenly turned his back and stormed away, spewing obscenities and not troubling to keep his voice down.

Smecker squared his shoulders and faced Dolly and Duffy. "You're both competent cops, right?" he asked. "You've got fairly decent track records. It might take you awhile, but you usually get your man."

They both looked confused, but nodded.

"There are too many frigging coincidences here," he went on. "Pennies at two crime scenes, mobsters at all three...and a couple more crooks for good measure."

"You said something about a mob war before," Dolly suggested, trying to regain the flow of the conversation. "Maybe the two extra guys just got caught up in it?"

Smecker shook his head. "That's not right. There's a bigger picture here, just step back and take a look." They still looked uncomprehending, and he added, "You remember what Greenly said?"

"You mean Greenly was right about something?" Duffy asked, looking surprised.

Resignation and irony marked Smecker's expression. "Unnerving as it is to consider a theory from my coffee boy, it's the best we have.  _Our_  guys are targeting bad guys, so we're looking for vigilantes."

Duffy and Dolly each heaved a sigh and Dolly muttered, "Just fucking great..."

"You see the problem," Smecker agreed. "A bunch of wannabe crime fighters on the loose, swatting out offenders like ants at a picnic."

"If the media gets hold of this," Duffy began.

"They will. Then every Joe Blow on the street will want to follow the example and start capping assholes, all for the greater good. It'll be pure anarchy."

"But we still don't know nothing," Dolly insisted. "We got two shooters with a lot of loose change and another going berserk shooting up diners-"

"They're working together," Smecker replied. They looked confused again, so he explained, "The guys at Copley Plaza were efficient for amateurs, and we know they like to leave pennies. The diner was sloppy with no pennies, so they had no part in it, but the guys in the other booths at the club were done just as sloppy as the diner. Now, whoever left the scene at the diner was there with the guys at the hotel, which means all our crime fighters have teamed up. You'll have an army on your hands before you know it, Boston's very own Justice League."

"So what do you propose?" Duffy inquired; he had a look on his face like overtime had been abolished.

"We need to get it under control, gentlemen. But our next quandary: what do we have besides barren crime scenes and conjecture?"

The detectives looked blank.

His smile widened into mockery. "Exactly. As long as these guys lay low, our hands are tied."

Well, facts were facts. All they could do was stand back and watch for the next move, wait for the next low life to be cut down. Hell, it had a certain convenience...it was a lot easier than chasing down every suspect, and provided a much more satisfactory conclusion to the chase than to spend weeks and months on an investigation only to have his quarry escape justice at the last possible minute. How many times had he watched crooks and criminals face the punishment they deserved, only for them to find ways around it: bribing officers and judges, hiring hot-shot attorneys, and eliminating witnesses. Those motherfuckers walked away laughing while he was forced to realize the law didn't serve justice. The worst ones always managed to get away with it, and how it haunted him to think of the men who walked free among the innocent. But these three guys...they solved the problem with hot lead and cold resolve...if only he could be so lucky...

He gave a sigh of envy and irritation.  _I hate vigilantes._


	9. Recon Mission

Connor and Murphy rose early as usual on Sunday morning, but Renata slept on. Connor went to her and tapped her on the shoulder to wake her. "C'mon, Renata, up an' at em."

She stirred and opened her eyes slightly. "What's going on?" she asked.

"We're headin ta Mass," he told her.

She hummed in acknowledgment. "Wake me up when you get back." She pulled the blanket over her head.

He drew it back down again and said, "We're not comin back after. We got shit ta do today."

"Another stakeout," Murphy said, "an' we gotta run by the hardware store..."

"Yeah, ye're buyin a toilet, remember?"

Renata groaned and rubbed at her tired eyes. "What time is it?"

"Ye prob'ly don't wanna know," Connor told her. "We'll be out in the car. If ye want in today, be ready in five minutes or we're leavin without ye."

She heaved an aggrieved sigh and flung off the blanket. The brothers turned for the door, pausing at the threshold to collect their rosaries and hang them around their necks. Still grumbling her annoyance at early morning piety, Renata set about getting ready.

Down in the car, Murphy glanced at the clock on the dash. "It's been more'n five minutes," he said. "We're gonna be fuckin late. Are we leavin or not?"

"Just give it a little more," Connor replied calmly. "She'll be down."

Moments later, Renata came out of the building, carrying her coat and her backpack. Connor tapped on the horn and called out the window, "Ye took yer fuckin time!"

"Half a fucking second, already!" she shot back, walking to the car. She still had an irritable, I-hate-mornings expression, and the brothers grinned as she continued to curse and mutter. She reached for the door handle and Connor tapped the gas, making the car lunge forward. "Really?" she demanded as he and Murphy laughed from the front seat. She got in the back and slammed the door. "I thought you were supposed to be mature adults."

"An' I thought ye were s'posed ta be fuckin ready," Connor bantered back, pulling away from the curb.

"Oh, you mean you haven't heard? Women are never ready on time. Get used to it."

"I'll be sure ta keep it in mind."

They drove through the neighborhood in silence and Renata began to nod off, her head bobbing with the motion of the car. It gave a jolt as they hit a bump in the road and she banged her head against the window, startling her back to awareness. In an effort to stay awake and avoid further injury, she tried to make conversation. "So, Catholics."

"Aye," Murphy replied.

She nodded. "Way to defy all the stereotypes, fellas."

"Oh, is that right? What about you, then? Protestant heretic?"

"Raised that way. I converted later on. Now I'm a practicing agnostic." She yawned and dug through her backpack for a Snickers bar. "I wish I had brothers and sisters growing up," she said as she unwrapped it. "Even a cousin would have been fine with me."

"Only child?" Connor asked.

"Yep." She paused to take a bite of the candy bar and continued through a mouthful of chocolate, "I got spoiled as a kid, especially at my grandparents' house."

"There was none a that when we were kids," he replied. "Ma wouldn't hear of it."

"Any other siblings?"

"Nah. But plenty a cousins."

"And the whole gang's back in the mother country?"

"Sure."

She nodded again. "My grandparents were immigrants. Granddad was from Hamburg, and Nana was from Aberdeen. She was psychic, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She predicted my birth from the time my mother went into labor to the moment I came out. Thirty-three hours and twenty-six minutes exactly. Of course, she also predicted I'd be a hermaphrodite, but..."

"Where the fuck did that come from?" Murphy asked.

"She didn't like my dad," she replied. "She knew he was a bad seed. I walked in on him banging my babysitter once, and he took off when I was in the fourth grade."

"Sorry 'bout that. Our da left too."

She crumpled the Snickers wrapper and stuffed it into her backpack. "Let me guess, he was sleeping with a skank at the office."

"Nah. He just left."

"Why?"

"No idea."

"Sheesh, that's rough..." She stared out the window for a moment, then said, "I'm curious as to who is big brother in this equation."

"So're we," Connor told her.

"What? How can you not know who-" She paused as logic caught up with her. "So you must be-"

"Twins, yeah."

"And you don't know who's oldest?"

"Sure we don't."

She cracked up laughing. "That's fucked up, man!"

"That's our fuckin mother for ye. We've been tryin ta get it outta her for years, an' she still won't fuckin spill it."

"But we both know I'm the oldest," Murphy remarked with a wicked grin.

"Oh, the fuck ye are," Connor told him, giving him a shove.

"Don't be talkin that filth in front a the lady."

"Lady?" Renata asked, looking around. "I don't see a lady. Is she riding in the trunk?"

"She got ye there, Murph," Connor said, smirking.

"So what are you trying to say, Connor?" she countered, turning the tables. "You saying I can't be a lady? How rude of you."

Murphy's grin widened. "Ye walked right inta that one,  _little_  brother."

"Ah, shut yer fuckin trap, ye bastard...and  _I'm_  the oldest."

Murphy whacked him over the head.

They pulled up outside the church and Connor parked the car. "Ye comin in?" he asked Renata.

She pondered the question, then shook her head. "No, I'll pass. A heretic in the house of God, I'd probably be struck by hellfire."

"Suit yerself." He and Murphy got out of the car and walked up the steps of the church and she watched them go inside. She hadn't set foot in a church in years, not since her grandfather's funeral. She had never been religious, but with all the marks against her she wasn't sure the Man Upstairs wouldn't smite her on the spot if she dared enter His temple.

She dug her cigarettes out of her backpack and flicked her lighter, staring at the flame before lighting up.

* * *

When Connor and Murphy left the service, Renata was sitting in the front seat of the car, using the rearview mirror to put makeup over her fading bruises. The wind cutting in through the missing window blew her hair across her face, sticking to her fresh lipstick. She huffed in irritation and pulled her hair back behind her shoulders, but the wind persisted, whipping it into a tangled mess.

"Havin trouble?" Connor asked.

She looked up through her windblown mop and replied, "What gave it away?"

"Call it a lucky guess," he said, getting in on the driver's side. "Goin' somewhere special?"

"No, I just got tired of looking at myself."

Murphy opened the passenger side door and nodded towards the backseat. "C'mon. To the back with ye."

"Only if one of you comes with me," she said, raising her eyebrows suggestively, a playful smile on her freshly painted lips.

"Christ, woman, we just fuckin got outta church," he chided, trying to suppress his own smile as he ushered her from the front.

"Yeah, you're right. You're too holy for me. I hope you lit a candle and prayed for me," she replied, tossing her backpack onto the backseat and climbing in after it.

"I'm of a mind ta go back an' do it," he told her. He got in the car and closed the door, and they drove off.

"What's on the agenda now?" she asked, combing out her hair with her fingers.

"We head over ta watch yer friend's place for a few hours," Connor answered.

"Hm. Who wants a Snickers?"

They got to Reg's neighborhood and parked far enough away from the house to be unnoticed while staying close enough to see what was going on. "No cars outside," Connor remarked.

"They're all night owls," Renata pointed out. "They should be getting in pretty soon. God knows what they're doing with the club shut down."

"Should we take a closer look?" Murphy asked.

Connor paused, then got out of the car. "Wait here an' keep watch," he said.

"And what are we supposed to do if someone shows up?" Renata questioned. "Yell? Call the cops? Snipe him in the driveway?"

He ignored her and set off up the street, looking casual as could be.

She shook her head. "He's lost it."

"He knows what the fuck he's doin'," Murphy told her.

Connor moved up the driveway as if it was an everyday occurrence and opened the gate in the privacy fence around the backyard, then disappeared. Murphy and Renata sat quietly for several minutes, the lingering chill coming in through the open window. In the front seat, he shivered and thrust his hands into his pockets. "That fuckin window..."

"Hey, I said I'll fucking fix it," Renata replied. "I wasn't going down without a fight. I had enough of that shit with Reg."

Murphy stared at the house where Connor was still investigating the territory and asked, "Was he always like that?"

"Ever since I started there. I took a few breaks away from that place when I could, but shit always happened and I had to go back. The customers were all pigs, but Reg was the worst. I could tell what he wanted every time he looked at me." She gave an involuntary shudder and went on, "He almost got it that day." She took out her cigarettes and offered him one; he accepted and she passed him her lighter as well. They returned to the earlier silence, still watching the house.

"See anything?" she asked after a while.

"Nah," he replied. "Wonder what the fuck's takin so-"

Connor climbed over the fence around the backyard and dropped to the ground. He edged around the house, crossed the yard, and gained the sidewalk, returning to the car and getting inside before speaking. "The gate was unlocked an' the kitchen window was open, but it shouldn't be hard ta jimmy it if necessary. The back door's no good, slidin glass an' a broomstick handle ta keep it shut."

"Did ye get inside?" Murphy asked.

"Aye. Looks like about five livin there."

"That oughta be easy, then. Ye wanna catch em all at once?"

"We could." Connor glanced back at Renata. "What kind a guys are these?" he asked.

"You mean how do they rank in terms of evil?" she countered.

He and Murphy nodded.

"I told you, they're all corrupt. They're selling shit at the club just like the rest, and they're all in on it whenever Benny has a girl there. Does that count?"

Murphy glanced at Connor, raising an eyebrow.  _What do you think?_

Connor shrugged and spread his hands.  _Why the fuck not?_

Renata watched the silent exchange closely, expression shrewd and stony. "Well?" she prompted.

"Evil men..." Connor said softly.

"Dead men," Murphy concluded.

She looked from one to the other, then shrugged. "Amen."

* * *

"So the job should be simple?" Rocco asked.

They had all met up at a diner near the boys' apartment to discuss the day's findings; the food was only so-so, but the coffee was excellent.

"Should be," Connor replied, taking a sip of coffee.

"And when are we going in?"

Renata cleared her throat loudly, stirring cream and sugar into her coffee.

"After the stitches are out," Connor answered.

She gave a contented smile.

"Don't start lookin too excited," Murphy warned her. "No one said ye're comin."

"No one ruled it out, either," she replied.

"What else do ye know about these guys?" Connor inquired.

"Well, there's Reg, of course," she began, "then Chad, he's always in shit over gambling debts, and Jason, he's Reg's enforcer in the club. Then there's Art the pot head, and Nugget."

"Nugget?"

"It's a joke. He's nearly as big as Reg. He just got out of prison for beating a guy with a tube sock full of billiard balls, and he does extra on the side selling dope. He's the loose cannon. Reg always had to keep an eye on him."

"Duly noted," Connor told her.

"How does this work?" she asked. "Do we watch them and learn their patterns, then form a plan of action or something?"

"Actually, we usually just wing it," Murphy replied.

"Great. I signed on with Moe, Larry, and Curly."

"Guess that makes ye Shemp, then," Connor told her.

She rolled her eyes but she still smiled, taking a Twizzler from the bag in her backpack.

It was Connor's turn to roll his eyes. "For Christ's fuckin sake, woman, ye're in a fuckin diner, why don't ye eat somethin?"

"I suppose I'm knitting a sweater," she argued, biting off the end of the candy. "What are you, my mother?"

"Sylvie," he called, addressing the waitress across the diner, "would ye get this girl a cheeseburger? I've yet ta see her take any real fuckin food."

"How do you want it, hon?" Sylvie asked, whipping out her ticket pad as she approached.

Renata shrugged. "The same way I want my men, red hot with plenty of sizzle." She gave the brothers a sideways glance and a wink. "Make it a double with all the good stuff."

Sylvie walked away and Connor asked casually with a wicked gleam in his eye, "Are ye sure ye can handle the double, girl? I've seen it, an' it might be a bit too much for ye."

"I don't scare that easy, Mr. MacManus," she replied. "I've got a pretty big appetite, and I'll try any dish that looks tasty."

Rocco listened to the exchange and grumbled, "How come you guys get all the chicks?"

"It's the accent, Roc," Murphy replied with a smirk, listening to the banter. "They can't fuckin resist it."

He shrugged it off and went on, "After this one, I got an idea for our next job. This motherfucker's had it coming to him since I met him."

"Yeah? Fill us in."

"Wait a second," Renata interrupted. "You guys really aren't hit men?"

"Really," Connor answered. "Murder for hire's not our thing."

"But plain murder is, as long as the guy deserves it?"

"Would ye keep yer fuckin voice down?" Murphy implored. He looked around the diner to see if anyone was nearby to listen in, and when the coast was clear he corrected her. "Not murder. Retribution." The humor had fled his voice, replaced by an unflinching gravity, and his eyes found hers, holding her stare with no effort at all. "We do what no one else has the fuckin balls ta do an' see that the scum a society gets what the fuck they got comin to em. Real justice, no fuckin mercy."

Renata nodded along, never questioning but beginning to wrap her mind around it. "Evil men, dead men?" she asked.

"Aye," Connor replied. "'Bout fuckin time someone took up the sword, don't ye think?"

She shook her head in pure amazement. "Wow."

"Yeah," Rocco agreed. "That's fuckin insane, isn't it?"

"Just a bit," she said, "but on the other hand...it's fucking brilliant."

Murphy nodded. "Exactly. Now ye get it."

She went quiet, staring down into her coffee.

Sylvie reappeared, carrying a plate piled with homestyle fries and the biggest cheeseburger Renata had ever seen. "Here you go," she said. "Watch it, those fries are hot."

"Holy shit, that's huge," Renata said, swatting Murphy's hand away from the fries and missing Rocco sneaking a few off the plate when she wasn't looking.

"Ye ordered a double," Connor reminded her. He stared skeptically at all the food and asked "Are ye sure ye can eat all that?"

"Fuck yeah. I've eaten bigger things than this, if you know what I mean."

"Easy, there, darlin, this is a family place."

"Which is to say, quit needlessly turning you on." She poured ketchup over the fries and reached for the burger, pausing to shoo Murphy away again. "Get your own and stay out of my plate," she told him.

"Quit bein' so fuckin narky with me," he replied, "when ye haven't even noticed Roc's been inta yer plate since it got ta the fuckin table."

She looked up in time to catch Rocco red-handed, stolen fries halfway to his mouth. "You asswipe," she cursed.

He stuffed the fries into his mouth with no remorse and replied, "Survival of the fittest, Malone." And he helped himself to more fries.

"You son of a-" She grabbed the ketchup and upended it over his coffee, pouring half the bottle into the cup.

Connor and Murphy burst out laughing while Rocco sat flabbergasted. He finally snatched the cup and stared at the mess inside it, sputtering, "You bitch!"

"Don't steal shit off my plate, dickwad," she shot back.

"Sylvie!" Connor and Murphy called.

The waitress returned to the table. "What can I do for you boys?" Rocco handed her the tainted coffee and she tried not to smile, asking, "Who did it this time?"

All three men pointed at Renata and Sylvie lost the battle with her smile. She brought Rocco a fresh cup and he took it quietly, keeping it well out of Renata's reach. Renata herself started on her cheeseburger at last, eating unaffectedly for a few minutes before she reached for her backpack. Glancing around to make sure Sylvie wasn't looking, she took out the bottle of Jack Daniel's and poured a shot into the cup.

Connor pushed his coffee across the table towards her and she gave him a quizzical look. "I thought it was disappointing," she said.

"What the fuck."

She shrugged and added the whiskey, then glanced at Murphy and Rocco. "Anyone else, while I'm at it?"

They both nodded and she spiked the rest of the coffee before hiding the bottle in her bag again. She took a long drink and said, "You know, if I'm Shemp, that means one of you is out. There were only ever three Stooges at a time."

"I preferred the musketeer analogy anyway," Rocco informed her.

"All right, then." She considered it for a moment, then indicated Murphy, then Rocco, then Connor. "Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Which makes me d'Artagnan."

"Ye sound pleased with yerself," Murphy said.

"Hey, it sure beats the fuck out of Shemp." She pushed the plate of fries across the table towards him, ignoring Rocco's indignant muttering. "You want any?"


End file.
